Back to Major Case
by K100
Summary: Years after their departure from MCS, Goren & Eames find their way back to the department. They catch up with each other years after season 9. Last Chapter is up: GOREN & EAMES. COMPLETE
1. A Bitter Wind

**Back to Major Case**

**A BITTER WIND**

"What do you think? Why did she have all that money on her? Why didn't the killer take it?" Said Stevens as she sat at her desk looking over photos.

"I don't know. It seems personal; she was the target." Nichols said as he looked over his shoulder to the captain's office. The captain looked worn-out and angry, and it was only eight in the morning.

"Why does a twenty-something wearing thrift-shop clothes have $20,000 in her purse?"

"This girl volunteered at homeless shelters, wanted to teach kindergarten—no witnesses." his voice faded.

The captain briskly walked from her office through the squad room and stopped at their desks. "Did you two take the call that came in this morning—a few hours ago?"

"Yes," Stevens said. "We're working on it now."

"I need you to put that on hold for the time being." She paused, "there are three stockbrokers dead at the stock exchange. The press already has a catchy title: The Wall Street Murders."

"Well," Nichols said, "not a very clever title, but it will do. What's going to happen to this case?"

"Right now, I don't know. I'll probably just give it to the local precinct—or give it to a team here, if one becomes available. I need you two to take this other case, though; it's gonna be big in just a few hours."

On their way to the scene, Nichols flipped through the slim case file thinking about the girl. "I don't want to give up on this case," he said to Stevens, "this dead girl gets pushed to the side because she's not headline news."

"I don't know what to tell you."

After hours of looking over the scene, talking to witnesses and ignoring the press, Nichols and Stevens got into their car to drive back to One Police Plaza.

Without saying anything, Nichols gradually pulled the car over, double parked, and left the engine running.

"What are we doing?" Stevens asked, even though exhaustion from an early morning and an already long day made her largely uninterested.

"That's a good question." He tapped the steering wheel with his index fingers while staring into the distance. "I am going to run an errand, and you can go back to the station to get a head start on this Wall Street thing." He let go of the wheel and smiled. "I'll be back as soon as possible. Really."

Stevens rolled her eyes and got into the driver's seat. "Make it fast, please."

"Of course."

As she drove off, he jogged down the street to a subway entrance. While riding, he flipped through the case file he had of the girl they saw hours ago. There was something that nagged him about her and her death. A case like this would disappear if put on hold for too long. He got off the train and climbed the staircase to the street; with every ascending step, he felt more and more cold air rushing toward him until he reached the street. There he was met with a gust of sharp, chilled air.

In the shelter of a brownstone, a man sold flowers from his little cart. Nichols bought a small bouquet. The smell the flowers gave off was intoxicating; he took a moment to enjoy them before gently slipping them under his coat for protection from the wind. The wind was murder itself. It gathered strength as the day wore on, and Nichols knew the walk down the next few blocks would be bitter.


	2. A Feeling

**Back to Major Case**

**A FEELING**

The building was a shabby old brownstone on a street with doctors' offices and insurance agencies. Nichols climbed the thick exterior staircase, opened the broad double doors, and walked into a warm and quiet room with the faint sound of a phone ringing in the distance.

"Need somein', buddy?" said an officer sitting behind a desk.

"Yeah," he showed his badge, "I'm here for Lieutenant Eames." He began to walk to past the officer to her office, but he was stopped.

The officer held out his hand and stepped in front of Nichols, "and you are?"

"Detective Nichols, Major Case."

"Sit down." The officer walked into another room.

There was no place to sit. There were no chairs in the reception area.

"Hey, Major Case," came a call from the other room, "this way." The officer led Nichols into an office and said, "here."

Sitting behind a desk was Alex Eames. Nichols smiled broadly and presented the flowers from under his coat. "For you."

"Well, thank you, Zack." She said with a raised eyebrow. He handed her the flowers and watched her inspect them. "They're beautiful."

"But they're nowhere near as beautiful as you."

"Oh god, what do you want, Zack?" she said dryly.

"Just wanted to talk."

"Have a seat, please." She said. This time there was a chair for him.

"You know," Nichols said, "that officer you have working the front desk is a charmer. He's new?"

"Yeah. I don't what's wrong with him. " Eames started to look around her office for something to put the flowers in.

"And what happened to all the chairs? You don't have any chairs out there anymore."

"Budget cuts."

"Ah! Yes, I should have known. How have you been, Alex?"

"Good. I was wondering when you were going to stop by; it's been a few months since we've had lunch." She found a half empty water bottle and placed the flowers inside.

"My deepest apologies," Nichols placed his hand over his heart. "I've been up to my ears in dead people."

"Yes, I know how that is. Or—at least I used to know." After clearing a spot on the corner of her desk, she placed the flowers next to a pile of papers.

"Right," Nichols smiled, "when was the last time you had a good homicide to work on?"

"Oh, about two months." She said before finally sitting down.

"Really? That's just too long—"

"No, believe it or not, I've come to enjoy _not_ seeing death every day."

"I can see how that could be nice." Nichols placed a file on her desk. "Anyway, I was just kicked off this is a case."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. MCS is backed up and the Wall Street thing is taking precedence. Have you heard about it yet? It's a good one—but anyway, my partner and I were taken off this to work on the Wall Street one."

Eames thumbed through the file. "So, shouldn't you be working instead of bringing me flowers?"

"Well, there's always time for flowers." He smiled, "especially when I need a favor."

She put the folder down on the desk and folded her arms—ready to listen.

"This is a strange case. I think it's time sensitive, too. Either the captain will kick it down to a local precinct or it will be put on hold."

"Well, I know Major Case is the best place to solve a crime," she said with just a touch of sarcasm, "but the detectives who get the case will be able to handle it. It should be fine."

"I know, I just—I want this case. There's something about it, I can't let it go. I need to convince my captain to let Major Case keep it, and if I can't have it, I want someone I know to take it. You know, so I can look in on it every now and again."

"And who's that?"

"You," he laughed nervously, "it just seemed like one of those cases you and Goren used to masterfully put together."

"Well you can flirt with me all you want, but I think it's your captain you should convince."

"That's true. Yes, that's true." He lightly placed his hand over his mouth and took a breath while staring out the window. "I want to know if you'd consider taking it before I go through all the trouble of manipulating my captain into thinking this is a good idea."

"I don't know—"

"I am going to suggest that you be brought on as a consultant."

"You know, I had a good run at Major Case. But it didn't end very well. I'm not exactly jumping at the chance to go back."

"I understand," he reached across the table and opened the file to the picture of the young woman, "but I have a feeling she's not going to be her killer's last victim."

She looked at the picture for just a second. "Zack, I want to help but—"

"Goren was looking for a transfer a few years ago—maybe he still is. If you want, he can come too. It could be a way for him to get back to Major Case."

"Wait a minute, Zack. If _I_ don't want to go back there, what makes you think he would?"

"I don't know, I just want you to take the case, and I thought you might want to bring him along. Like I said, this seems like the kind of case you two liked."

"First of all," Eames said softly and directly, "you don't know what he wants. Second of all, _I_ don't know what he wants."

"I know, I know. I'm working on a hunch here. I really just thought you and Goren would be the best for this. I just have a feeling."

"I haven't seen Goren in a long time, Zack."

"I'm desperate."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure," Nichols said honestly.

Eames looked beyond Nichols to the squad room behind him. "I'll think about helping if this is approved."

"And you'll call Goren?"

"Are you using me to get to him?" She said in good humor.

"No, of course not. I came to _you_, my dear." He waved his hands dramatically, "forget about Goren. We don't need him. I was just using any ploy I could think of to get you to do this." The grin on his face was devilish.

Eames was amused by him. She took in a deep breath of air, "I'll see if I can get a hold of Goren. But there are no promises."

"Thank you—but I need to know if you two are on board soon."

She let out a long sigh and looked at her watch. "You're asking for a lot."

Nichols stood and said, "I'll get more flowers."


	3. Anything is Possible

**Back to Major Case**

**ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE **

Goren was working on his third cup of coffee when he spotted her walking down the sidewalk. From his window seat, he watched her dash across the street, into the wind, with her head down and hands buried in the pockets of her long coat. When she entered the diner, she took a moment to remove her gloves and brush the hair out of her face.

He stood up and she spotted him.

"Hi." He said softly, once she reached him.

"Hi." Eames said, "Thanks for coming." It was almost a surprised to see him there. She knew he would show up if she called, but she really never expected to see him again. She figured their last goodbye—years ago—would be it for them.

They sat down across from each other at a small table.

Goren watched her remove her scarf. "I'm happy you called. It's been a while."

"I know. Too long. Maybe two years?"

"Something like that," He said softly, though he knew it had been much longer.

"How have you been?" She noticed he had lost some weight, and his hair was much grayer than she remembered. "You look good."

"I'm doing okay. Just working." He studied her for a moment, "What have you been up to? How's Grace?"

"We're both doing well." She smiled and reached into her purse.

"How old is she now?"

"Five." She pulled out a wallet sized photo and handed it to him. "This is her Kindergarten picture."

He studied the picture. "I can't believe it. She was a baby last time I saw her—and now kindergarten."

"I know; it's hard to believe."

"Does she like school?"

"Loves it. She's already starting to read. I don't think I could read until high school."

They both chuckled rather cautiously. Goren noticed the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth deepened when she smiled. She was a little heavier than before, though still petite, and her hair was short.

He slid the photo back across the table, and she thoughtfully placed it back into her purse.

A waitress approached them. "Would you like anything?" she asked Eames.

"Coffee, please."

"Just a minute." The waitress left.

"So," Eames said as she leaned forward slightly, "tell me what you've been up to. Are you still working with the Organized Crime team?"

"Yeah." He shrugged.

"Still don't like it?"

"It's okay." He sipped his coffee, "it's a lot of surveillance work, the monotonous kind. It would be more fun if I were twenty-five years younger."

"Wouldn't everything be more fun if you were twenty-five years younger?" She said flatly.

"Yeah," he agreed, "It's true."

"Why don't you transfer—or quit? Find a different department or a different career." A smile crept across her face. "You could do anything."

He shook his head and looked out the window, it had started to rain. "Maybe—if I were twenty-five years younger."

She shrugged, "well, before you make any changes," she pulled out the case file and handed it to him. "I want you to look at something."

He raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

"This is not the only reason I called you," she reassured him. "It's just one of the many reasons," she knew he could she right through her.

He opened the file. "One of your cases, Lieutenant?"

"No, actually, it's from Major Case."

He raised his eyebrows again, but this time his face hardened.

She could see he was unhappy. Immediately she regretted this entire meeting and said nothing.

"So," he looked through the file, "why do you have something from them?"

"Zack Nichols paid me a visit this morning. They're backed up at MCS, and he was taken off this case to work the Wall Street murder. He thinks this is particularly important and is afraid that if it's sent down to a local precinct, it won't be handled properly—something like that." Her voice trailed off. It didn't matter. "Where's my coffee?" She muttered.

"Does he want your team to take it?"

"No, he wants us to take it—you and me. He wants to bring us to Major Case as consultants."

"Really?" He looked at the file briefly, and then looked her square in the eyes, something he had yet to do. "What did you tell him?" His voice was steady and firm; his gaze was direct. There was something about this that brought back a rush of familiarity. He had that recognizable look about him that showed he was a bit annoyed, but not altogether angry. Up until that point, Eames almost felt like she was talking to a stranger.

She held his gaze and said, "I made no promises."

He began looking halfheartedly through the file again. "Why us?"

"He said it seemed like the kind of case we would like."

"How would he know?" He muttered to himself.

"Zack hasn't told his captain about this yet." She rolled her eyes, "and he needs to know tonight if we want to take it—I don't really know why, but you know Zack—"

"I'm not sure I understand what's going on here." Goren exhaled forcefully.

"To tell you the truth, I don't know either." She said, "Zach_ is_ rather persuasive, though."

"I'm sure he is."

"Look," she said in a warm tone, "I know Major Case is the last place you want to lend a helping hand. I don't know if I want to either, but—"

"Then why did you bring this to me?"

"I don't know. A friend asked for my help, and in order to help him I need _your_ help. I thought maybe you'd want to relive your glory days," she said sarcastically.

He shook his head and looked away from her. "You certainly don't need my help to solve a case."

"I'll just tell him you're busy. It's fine."

The waitress set a cup of coffee in front of Eames. Looking away from each other, they sat for some time enveloped in silence.

Goren put down the file and asked, "Do you think there is any chance of me being reconsidered for a permanent position at MCS?" He was looking her directly in the eyes again; this time, he was far from confident. "Or do you think that door has closed?"

Eames was surprised by the question, but she leaned forward to emphasize her answer. "After everything that happened, you got your badge back and the charges dropped. Honestly, Bobby, with you, anything is possible."


	4. Back to Major Case

**Back to Major Case**

**BACK TO MAJOR CASE**

It was all extremely familiar. The walls were still gray, the desks were still gray and the people still dressed in gray—even the blue tones were gray. Maybe they never noticed it before, but the monochromatic atmosphere had an effect on the people who occupied it. They sat in the gray office quietly, side by side, in what were probably the same chairs they sat in years ago. Through the interior windows, they could hear the hum of activity they saw on the other side. No matter what they were there for, sitting in that office was always like waiting for the principal. This time was no different.

When the elevator doors opened and they stepped into the squad room for the first time in five years, Goren and Eames went undetected. There were more than a few people they recognized, but no one seemed to look in their direction. Nichols was not around to greet them, but the captain spotted them from across the room and flagged them over.

"Detective Goren and Lieutenant Eames?" She asked.

They nodded their heads.

"Go have a seat in my office. I'll be with you shortly." Then she walked off.

That was about forty-five minutes ago. There was little for them to do but sit in the fishbowl and pretend they did not notice as people started to realize they were there. Finally, a young detective opened the door and said, "Are you two in trouble again?"

"Sam," Eames said as she stood to greet him. Detective Samuel Hart started at MCS a few months before Goren and Eames left. He was overwhelmingly friendly and happy—a contrast to most people at Major Case—Sam was not a gray kind of cop. He went through two partners in his first three months at MCS and found the only person who really acknowledged him was Eames. The rest of the MCS population seemed to be annoyed by his eager personality.

"How are you, Alex?" Hart said as he hugged her.

"Fine." She stiffly patted him on the back. "How are you?"

"Good." He turned to Goren, "nice to see you again, Detective." They shook hands.

"So," he turned his attention back to Eames, "what are you two in for? There are a lot of rumors floating around."

"Oh, we might consult on a case."

"That's great. We're backed up around here; Captain has us working fifty hours a day."

"Fifty hours a day?" Eames asked.

"Well, something like that." His permanent smile widened on his baby face.

"So, where is your Captain?" Goren asked. "We've been here a while."

"I have no idea, but I have to get going. I just wanted to say hi." He left the room as fast as he entered.

They sat down again and waited. Eames remembered how much she liked Sam. He was one of those people who could be funny without ever trying. In fact, he was never aware of how comical his eccentric personality was. In that respect, Sam was a lot like Goren when she first started working with him. Goren would make strange movements or say odd things that would make other people raise an eyebrow, but Eames—after a while—found it all rather entertaining. Slowly, though, that side of him evaporated.

Goren tipped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "Do you remember the last time we were here?"

That was at the forefront of her thoughts ever since they entered the office. "Yes."

He was quiet for a few moments. "I was never angry with you. I hope you know that." He said in a very low, almost inaudible tone.

"I know." She said with the same quietness in her voice. "I was angry with myself, though."

"It wasn't your fault. It was my fault."

"I felt horrible."

He sat up in the chair and turned to her. "I'm sorry I put you in that position."

The door opened and closed quickly, and suddenly the Captain was sitting on her desk facing them. "Hello. Thank you for waiting. Did you get any coffee or anything?"

Eames answered, "we're fine. Thank you."

"Well, I'm sure you already know, but we are understaffed around here have more cases than we can handle. We've kicked some cases down to local precincts, and we're going to temporarily bring detectives in from across the department to fill in on the rest. The two of you come highly recommended by Detective Nichols. I looked through your files and, frankly, I don't like the fact that you," she pointed to Goren, "have so many red flags—including being fired from Major Case."

Goren glanced at Eames who had an almost undetectable smile on her face.

"Lieutenant Eames, you have a nearly flawless record, except for the fact that you were Captain for about five minutes. That's a little strange. Anyway, the point is I don't really like the idea of taking chances on people who have had too many." Again she was looking at Goren. "But as I further looked over your records, it is clear you two, as a team, were very successful. You currently have the best closing rate of any partnership at MCS. I checked twice. We keep remarkable records around here."

Goren and Eames gave each other a quick glance.

"Because of that," the Captain continued, "I can overlook red flags for the time being, and I would greatly appreciate the help. So, I'll have to get permission from your superiors, but that shouldn't be hard, the 'request'," she used air quotes, "will come straight for the Chief of Ds. Also, this is a package deal. I want both of you or neither of you." She looked from Eames to Goren. "Any questions?"

Goren pointed to the squad room, "Can we have our old desks back?"


	5. Normal

**Back to Major Case**

**NORMAL**

"What?" the captain asked.

"Can we sit over there? It's where we used work." Goren pointed again, "at those desks."

She looked at the two desks. "I think they're being used."

"Right." Goren shrugged and looked to Eames, "they're being used."

Eames nodded to Goren and gave a faint smile to the captain.

"Anyway," the captain said, "When detectives Nichols and Stevens get back, they can fill you in on this case." She handed both of them a file. "I know he already talked to you," she said to Eames, "but read it over and wait for them. You can get started in one of those rooms over there. I'll try to find you some place to sit."

They read over everything, talked about it, looked at the pictures, talked about it, made some calls and waited. They learned that the murdered girl, Erin Copland, lived with her parents in Brooklyn and attended Kingsborough Community College. There was no struggle, just one sharp blow to the back of the head—and, of course, $20,000 in her possession.

Periodically they got up and wandered around the squad room. Eames was becoming the center of attention, everyone seemed happy to see her again, but—with the exception of a few—Goren was met with just a polite reception. It was of no surprise that she was greeted warmly, despite not ever being particularly outgoing, people liked her. They liked Goren less.

"You hungry?" Eames said to Goren after a while.

"Yeah, I am."

It was a frigid, dark night, and there was no moonlight to be spotted. Even for early November, it seemed unseasonably cold, and the wind that rushed through the lengthy, straight streets was unforgiving. They walked quickly into the wind with their long dark coats closed tight and their scarves fluttering behind them.

In the corner of a nearly empty Chinese food restaurant they sat recovering from the chill of their journey. The restaurant was a place they frequented a lifetime ago; it was always quiet and had wonderful food.

Goren looked around, "I haven't been here in a while."

"Yeah, we used to order from here a lot. Maybe we should've ordered in this time." Eames said as she tilted her head toward the window and pulled off her gloves. "Let someone else brave the cold."

Goren shrugged, "It's not that bad outside."

Eames sipped her water. "I think I ate here about twice a week when I was pregnant."

"Or more," Goren had a glint in his eye. "I remember when you told me you were pregnant." He looked around, "I think we were sitting in this very booth."

"That's right," she smiled, "I remember the look on your face."

"A look?"

"Yes, a look. The untrained eye may not have seen any look, but I did. You were surprised—maybe a little uncomfortable."

"Maybe," he shrugged.

"It wasn't like I didn't warn you," she said, "I told you about my sister and everything months before."

"I know, but you were the first pregnant woman I ever knew, so it was a little strange at first."

"Com'on. I am _not _the first pregnant woman you knew."

"I'd been around them," he said, "but not for more than a few moments—it wasn't like I knew any of them."

Eames shook her head, "I don't know whether to believe you or not."

"It's the truth," he said as he surveyed the room. "But it didn't bother me or anything."

"Oh, good, I'm glad I didn't cause you any distress."

"Well, you did case me a little distress," he turned back to her, "but I forgive you."

Eames was pleased by his willingness to banter with her. It was something they did early on in their partnership, but somewhere along the way it was lost.

The food was as good as ever, and quickly the years they spent apart began to disappear into familiarity.

They talked.

They talked about nothing important or personal, nothing significant or difficult, but they talked. The weather was critically analyzed, the food was evaluated, the quality of new and young detectives was questioned, and they talked.

There was a therapeutic quality to their conversation, and Goren was reaping the benefits. There was something thrilling, he felt, about reconnecting with the person who knew his brightest and darkest moments, his capabilities and weaknesses, his facial expressions and physical movements, and the sound of his voice better than any single person alive. It thrilled him because it had been a long time since he had been in the same room with someone he didn't consider a virtual stranger, or even worse, an acquaintance. It thrilled him because of everything she knew about him, and of everything he knew about her, they opted to talk about the weather. It was something normal people did, he thought.

Normal people had dinner with coworkers, normal people had dinner with friends, and normal people talked with their coworker-friends about light and meaningless things like the weather. It had been a long time since he felt normal. This was nice. There was no pressure, no awkwardness, and no pretending. He never liked small talk until that very night.

Soon the separate checks were delivered and they stepped back into the cold night. They walked quickly; this reminded Eames how many more steps she had to take to keep up with him.

"I'd forgotten how tall you are," she said. "You take half as many steps as I need to."

"Sorry," he said, slowing down a bit, "you do seem shorter than before, though."

"Thanks."

When they got back to the squad room, Sam flagged them down. They walked over to him; he was standing next to their old desks.

"Here you go," he held out his hands, Vanna White style.

"What?" Eames asked.

"You can have your desks back while you're here."

"I thought someone was using them," Goren said.

"Yeah," Sam said, "me and my partner."

"We can sit anywhere, Sam. It doesn't matter."

"No," Sam said, "this is good; we were able to move over by the windows."

They all looked toward the windows, and sure enough his partner was sitting at a desk with a view.

Sam smiled, "Captain asked where there was room for you two, and I made the switch. It's much better for us over there."

"As long as you're okay with this," Eames replied.

"It's just fine." Sam walked off and sat at his new desk.

They both stood there a bit awkwardly.

"Shall we?" Eames said as she motioned to the chairs.

They both sat down at their desks and took a moment to look around them, and finally they looked to each other. They held each other's gaze long enough to feel a tinge connection between them. It was a feeling neither realized they missed.

"So," Goren grabbed the case file, "let's get to work."


	6. The Copland Family

**Back to Major Case**

**THE COPLAND FAMILY**

Eames pulled off her coat, draped it across the chair and sat down. Even though she had been up for a few hours getting Grace ready for school, she was still half asleep. It was exactly nine in the morning—the same time she always starts work—but today it felt especially painful. Granted, mornings were never her thing, and it was always painful to wake up before noon, but this morning was full of dread. She and Goren had worked on their new case for only a few hours the night before, making a plan and gathering information, but today marked the beginning of something she had not done in years: work as a detective. That idea worried her a bit.

For the past five years, she has been a lieutenant and been part of many cases, but not as a detective. In that time she has learned to help her detectives and guide them as they do the footwork. Frankly, she has become very good in her leadership role.

At first, she was not too sure about being a lieutenant. She thought she would miss the work of a detective and hate the desk work of a lieutenant. But she was wrong, she liked the fact that her hours were steady and that she didn't have to leave her office all that much. Best of all, the job gave her the ability to spend time with Grace. Had she stayed with Major Case, it would not have allowed for the kind of life she enjoys now. If she stayed with Major Case, she would not have Grace.

But once again she was, for a short time, a MCS detective, and already she was tired.

A cup of hot coffee suddenly appeared on her desk. The steam rising out of the cup was noticeable and dissipated into the room. Beyond the cup, Goren sat down at his desk and sipped his own coffee. He shuffled through a large stack of papers, papers that had not been there the night before.

"Thanks," Eames said, "for the coffee."

He glanced up at her. Though there was not smile on his lips, his eyes glistened with kindness.

"How long have you been here?" She asked.

"I always get here before you."

"Yeah, but I have a feeling you've been here for a while."

"I got an early start."

"_Okay_."

He looked up. "I tracked down Copland's bank records. There is no sign that she ever had anything close to $20,000. So the money was not hers. We need to talk to the parents, she still lived at home."

She pointed to the papers on his desk, "What's the rest of this stuff?"

"Well, lots of things." He sifted through some of it and handed her a stack, "here are her cell phone records for the past three months—we just got it—I haven't looked through them yet."

"Allow me," she said.

It had only been twenty-four hours—in fact, less than twenty-four hours—since Nichols stopped by her office with flowers and the temptation of working for Major Case again, and in that short amount of time, she reconnected with the man who she nearly forgot. There he was sitting across from her, working away as he always had. In her groggy mind, it almost seemed like nothing had changed.

It was a strange feeling. Everything was the same but different.

"Morning." Nichols said as he swiftly walked past Eames.

She gave a half smile.

Nichols grabbed some coffee and pulled a chair next to her. "How's this going?"

"Fine. Did you interview the parents?"

"No."

"Why not?" She asked.

"Didn't have time. We had this case for just a few hours."

"Any idea why she had all that money?"

"Nope. But I sent the bills in to forensics. Maybe we'll get some prints." Nichols then looked over to Goren who was reading. "Nice to see you again, Goren. Thanks for helping out."

He picked his head up, "Yeah, good to see you."

There was silence.

"Well," Eames said to Goren, "we should go talk to the parents."

"Okay."

Everyone stood, including Nichols.

"It's nice to have you around again, Alex." Nichols said to Eames with a smile spread across his face. He helped her into her coat. "Now I don't have to make a trip to your neck of the woods just to see your beautiful face."

"Not now, Zack."

He held up his hands, "right, sorry."

"Yeah—be sorry," she said playfully.

Goren listened to their banter as he gathered his notebook.

In the One Police Plaza parking garage, they located their MCS issued car. While walking to it, Goren slipped the keys into her coat pocket. She felt the weight of them fall into the bottom of her pocket.

"I still get to drive?" She asked.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

The parents of Erin Copland, though distraught, were helpful. They said there was no boyfriend and she was loved by everyone. She worked in a bakery down the street from their home and was a good student. They had no idea why she had so much money with her.

There was one thing that bothered them, though, one of her coworkers, Tony, had been pestering her for weeks. He asked her out on many dates and she turned him down many times.

"Did he ever threaten her?" Eames asked.

"No," the father said. "She told us he was harmless."

"Are either of you musicians?" Goren asked.

"No, not really," the father replied.

Goren pointed to the baby grand piano.

"I try to play sometimes," the father said.

"It's a beautiful piano," Goren walked over to it and traced his fingers along the ivory keys. "It looks very old."

"It is, about one hundred years old."

Goren pulled the fallboard down. "Is it a family heirloom?"

"Yes, it was my great uncle's piano. He was a musician. This was also his home for a very short time."

"Your uncle was not just a musician, right? He was The Dean of American Composers."

The father looked perplexed. "Yes. How did you know?"

"Her name, first of all, Erin Copland, was intriguing. And Aaron Copland, the composer, was from Brooklyn. Hundred year old piano with the initials AC carved in the side. Just seems like more than a coincidence."

The father look closely at the tiny initials carved in the corner of the fallboard of the piano. "I never noticed that before," he said.

The mother spoke, "My husband is Aaron Copland's great nephew. We named her Erin on purpose." Tears began to fall down her face.

Eames said, "So you're not just _a_ Copland, you're a descendant of _the_ Copland."

"Right, but it's not like it really affected my life. My cousins and a team of lawyers run the estate. That's about it."

"Do you get any money from the estate?"

The father smiled weakly through the tears, "relatives of Aaron Copland get $500 a year—not much, but it's something. The rest of the money goes to maintaining his music and various charities and foundations."

As Goren and Eames talked with the parents, there was a bit of strain to their questioning. They would sometimes begin to speak at the same time, or there would be long pauses as they waited for the other to fill the void. It was not as effortless as it once was.

When they stepped outside, the wind that plagued the day before was gone, but the cold air remained. They looked down the street and saw the bakery where Copland worked.

The smell of fresh bread was one of Eames' favorite things. She was contemplating buying something but knew she shouldn't, at least until they were done. She looked around at the stock photos of Italy in dingy frames and a crooked employee of the month plaque and wondered if the owners thought this was good decorating sense. Soon they heard a worker talking to another man; the man's name was Tony.

They walked over to Tony.

"Can we have a word with you, Tony?" Goren said as he flashed his badge.

Tony was young and skinny. His hair was long and tucked into a hairnet.

"Where were you yesterday morning? Early."

"What? Why?" Tony's eyes were wide.

"Answer the question, please." Eames said.

"Home, I guess. I start work at 10."

"You guess?"

"Yeah, I sleep until about nine thirty—before I start work."

"You live with anyone?"

"My mom."

"Do you know Erin Copland?"

"Yes."

There was a long silence.

Tony looked from one detective to the other. "Is she okay?" he asked softly.

Eames held the crime scene photo up for him to see. His eyes got wider and began to drift. He abruptly collapsed, hitting his head on the edge of a table. Goren jumped to his aid, and Eames rolled her eyes as she put the photo back in the file.

"Tony," Goren said kneeling beside him. "Hey, buddy."

Tony was not responding and the other worker rushed over. "What'd you do?"

"Please, stay back," Eames told the man. She then looked to Goren, "I'll call for an ambulance."

The paramedics said Tony would be fine, except for the bad headache.

"Well, that was fun," Eames said dryly.

They spent the rest of the day interviewing friends, coworkers, and classmates to no real success. The sun had been down for hours when Eames decided she had had enough for one day, but as she gathered her coat, Nichols and Stevens brought a cuffed young man into an interrogation room. Eames saw the man from a distance and felt like she had seen him before. She followed them and stepped into the observation room. She watched for a few moments as they began light questioning of the man.

Eames went back to her desk, "Goren, I need you to see something."

He followed her into the observation room. The captain was now in there as well. Eames asked if he recognized the man. Goren watched for a moment, "I don't think so."

"His picture was in the bakery where Copland worked, he was the employee of the month," she said.

"Really?"

The captain looked at them, "really?"


	7. Grace

**Back to Major Case**

**GRACE**

Eames turned to the captain, "I'm guessing they're interviewing him for their case, the Wall Street thing?"

"Yes, but I don't have any details yet."

"We want him next."

The captain looked through the window, "I guess you'll have to wait."

They watched the interrogation until Mike Wilson, the employee of the month, asked for a lawyer.

Goren noticed Eames looking at her watch again as they went back to their desks.

"Hey," Goren said softly, "if you need to go, that's fine. I can handle it. You were halfway out the door an hour ago."

Eames sighed, "I don't know. It's kind of too late now."

"What do you mean?"

"By the time I pick Grace up from my sister's place and drive home, it's going to be late—past her bedtime—" Eames paused, "She'll be tired for school tomorrow."

"Oh," Goren said, though he really didn't understand.

Eames picked up the phone and called her sister. She asked if Grace could spend the night, and though Eames didn't like making this a habit, it did happen every now and again.

Goren could tell when Grace was on the other end of the phone because Eames was suddenly smiling and happy.

When she got off the phone Goren asked, "everything okay?"

"Yeah," Eames said, "I'm lucky to have family who can help me out with Grace. I just wish I didn't have to do things like this." Eames took a deep breath, "but this case won't last forever."

Goren nodded.

"I used to pick Grace up from my sister's place every night, no matter what time I got off work, but I realized it wasn't good for her sleep schedule." Eames smiled, "she gets grumpy when she doesn't get her sleep."

"I wonder who she gets that from."

"Watch it, buddy." She wagged her finger, "I'm a lieutenant, remember."

"I'll keep that in mind. So, Grace just stays with your sister overnight when you work late?"

"Yep, and I hate it. I _really_ hate it when I go home at two in the morning and she's not around. Sometimes, when I really feel guilty about working late, I just go to my sister's and sleep on the couch. Just so I can see Grace when she wakes up. I get to see my nephew too."

Eames talked about her daughter with a glowing enthusiasm that Goren had never seen in her. She smiled when she told stories of the things Grace had said and done. Still, as always, she was guarded in how much she divulged, and she was careful not to speak personally during work, but when she did talk about the center of her world, it was open and loving. Goren remembered the shock he received when he first learned of Grace.

It was the December after their last case and departure from MCS and Goren was walking out of a small market. Across the street there was a park packed with kids playing; as always, when he was on that side of the city, he began crossing through the park to catch the subway home. To his right there was a playground, and sitting in a neat row there were a few benches full of parents and strollers. All he could see was the back of the adult's heads, but he noticed one in particular. It was hard for him to see, the woman was far away, but he recognized her.

Goren shifted his weight as he peered, trying to see if that was her. She talked to the woman sitting next to her while alternately sifting her attention to the stroller at her side. Goren stared, doubting himself, and wondered if that was her. He began walking toward her, and as he got closer, though he never saw her face, he knew he was right. Once he got within ten feet of her, he could faintly hear her voice; it was as familiar to him as his own. He walked around the bench and waited for her to notice him, and when she saw him, he was met with squinting eyes.

"Bobby?" she said as she stood. She almost didn't recognize him, his hair was longer than normal and he had a full, thick beard. He was wearing a pair of old, faded jeans with a navy blue sweatshirt. It hadn't even been a year since she had seen him last, but he looked drastically different.

"Eames, hi."

"Hi."

He spoke slowly, "I was walking by and saw you." He gave a halfhearted shrug, "how are you?"

"Fine. It's nice to see you." Eames turned to the woman next to her, "this is my sister, Elizabeth." She pointed to Goren, "Elizabeth, this is Robert Goren, my partner from Major Case."

"Right," Elizabeth said as she held out her hand, "We've met."

Goren shook her hand, "How are you?"

"Good, thank you."

Eames raised her eyebrows, "you've met?"

Elizabeth nodded, "yeah, once. It was when you we're in the hospital—you know, after the incident."

"Oh, okay," Eames said. She turned her attention back to Goren, "So, how are you?"

"I'm alright—just got back from Germany. I taught a CID profiling course on a base for a few months. A friend got me the job."

"That's good."

He nodded. "I was able to practice my German."

"I doubt you really needed any practice."

He shrugged and glanced down at the child in the stroller. Eames noticed and gave a smile.

"I have a big change in my life." Eames paused, "this is my daughter, Grace."

Goren bent over and gazed down at the sleeping child. She was tiny and bundled up with blankets. He approximated an age for the infant and thought about how long it had been since seeing Eames last—the math didn't add up.

Eames could see the confusion on his face but knew he would not ask.

"I adopted her," Eames said, knowing he already deduced it.

"She's beautiful," Goren said softly.

Elizabeth stood, "Alex, I'm going to get the kids, we don't want to be late." She then turned to Goren, "nice seeing you again."

"We can't be late for dinner." Eames said to Goren, "My parents still get mad at us when we're late."

"Yeah, I should be going, too." He pointed to the baby, "she's a very lucky little girl."

"I'm the lucky one." She smiled again. "It's quite a story, her and I."

"I'd love to hear it sometime."

Eames nodded, "we should get lunch or something, and I'll tell you all about it."

"We should—I don't have a job, so I'm free."

He meant it as a joke, and it was the truth, but it only made the situation more uncomfortable.

"I have some time off before Christmas. I'll call you." She said.

"I look forward to it." He doubted she'll call, but hoped for it anyway. "I'll see you soon, Captain."

"Don't call me that." She let out a long sigh.

He cocked his head.

"_Captain_," she said. "Don't call me captain."

Still, he said nothing.

She finally said, "I'll see you later."

As he walked off, Eames sat down on the bench once again. She watched him walk across the park until he crossed the street and disappeared down a subway staircase. She was a little apprehensive about seeing him again. Everything had changed for her since she last conversed with him. In fact, it had been eight short months since she last saw him in the MCS squad room.

She thought back to that day, to the moment after she called the chief and told him she did not want the captain's position. She sat in the office for about a half hour, waiting for Goren to clear off his desk and leave. It was an agonizing wait. There was a cowardly feeling about not wanting to see him off, about not wanting to deal with him at that moment, about wanting to hide in the office until he left. That cowardly feeling was strong, but not strong enough to persuade her out of that room.

She watched him put his books into a large box and noticed no one seemed to look in his direction; no one acknowledged his obvious departure. They all knew. After about ten years at MCS, it all ended for him with a solitary walk to the elevator.

She watched him walk away through the blurry vision of moist eyes and felt angry, lost and tired. Nichols slowly opened the door to the office. "Alex—"

"Yes?"

"I'm leaving for a few days. I don't want to be here right now."

"I understand," she said sincerely. She knew he had been through a lot as well.

"You're going to be a great captain." He said, "I know you didn't want it to come about like this, but you'll do great."

She smiled, "I just turned down the job. I don't want to be here either."

He squinted, "I hope you'll reconsider."

"No," she said, "this is a good time to leave."

He nodded his head and slipped out the door. Eames looked around and felt an overwhelming sadness. She was never a very sentimental person, but this moment—in all its frustration and change—was hitting her hard. In just a few days, everything solid and certain was gone, and it was hard to take.

She went to her desk; there were things in the back of drawers she had not see in years—this only made her sadness grow. It was even tougher to see her partner's desk empty than it was to see her own that way. Eames too walked to the elevator undetected. _Fitting_, she thought.

For a half hour before finally leave One Police Plaza, she sat in her car and cried. It wasn't a sob, but a steady stream of tears rolling down her cheeks.

As Eames thought back to those moments, she felt the tinge of sadness all over again. She was relieved, though, to see that Goren seemed okay. If there was anything that nagged her, it was him. She worried about him for the first few weeks, but never called. She wondered what he was doing, but kept her distance.

"Alex," Elizabeth said, pulling Eames out of her thoughts, "he's the one you fired, right?"

"Yes, he's the one I fired."

"He didn't seem angry."

Eames shrugged, "I hope not. I wasn't my idea to fire him."

"If it were me, I'd be mad at you."

Eames looked at her sister and let out a sigh. "_Thanks_."

Elizabeth smiled, "_Kidding_. I'm just kidding."


	8. They Love To Hate You

**Back to Major Case**

**THEY LOVE TO HATE YOU**

Mike Wilson sat in the interrogation room waiting for a lawyer. Witnesses saw him outside of the Wall Street building a few hours before the stockbrokers were killed. When Eames told Nichols and Stevens about Wilson working at the same place as Erin Copland, the four detectives couldn't fathom this was just a coincidence.

"Do you think he could have been involved in both murders?" Stevens asked as she sat at the edge of her desk.

"Maybe," Goren said.

The detectives worked patiently as they waited to interrogate Wilson, but as the hours wore on and no lawyer appeared, they knew they would have to wait until morning.

It was one a.m. when the captain walked over to Nichols and Stevens and said, "His representation won't be here until tomorrow. We can't hold him that long unless he's being charged with something."

"We think he may be tied to both of our cases. I think that's a good reason," Nichols said.

The captain looked to the others. "Fine."

Eames grabbed her coat, "I'm gonna go, then." She looked to Goren "You should too." She could tell he was exhausted by the way his face seemed slacked and eyes were vacant.

"You can go," he said, "I'll keep working."

"On what?" She walked over to him and said in a low voice, "I know you won't tell me, but I don't think you ever went home last night. I've never understood why think sleep is such an enemy."

He didn't look up from his desk. "I'm fine, Eames."

She shook her head and walked to the elevator.

Nichols watched her walk away. "You know what? She has the right idea." He grabbed his coat and nudged Stevens slightly, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," she said.

Goren watched Nichols dash to the elevator with a bounce in his step.

"Alex," Nichols stood by her with his coat in hand, "may I escort you out?"

"Sure," Eames said. She looked over to Goren, "I don't know how Goren does it. He's always had a problem sleeping."

"Not me," Nichols smiled, "On my days off I can sleep for twelve hours straight."

Eames laughed, "twelve hours?"

"You bet." He put his coat on, "are you driving home?"

"Yes. I wish I didn't live so far away, though. It'll take at least an hour for me to get home and into bed." She did the math in her head. "I _might_ get a few hours of sleep."

"Why don't you come with me?" Nichols said. "I live close. I have a comfortable bed now. I've got one of those new foam beds—very nice."

Eames smiled with just one corner of her mouth, "no thanks."

"I'll sleep on the couch if you want."

She watched the elevator lights approach their floor.

"_Please_," Nichols said like a child. "It's a top of line bed—supposed to be good for your back."

She laughed. He amused her. "No, thank you."

"Okay, but the offer stands."

"I know."

The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. Goren watched their conversation from his desk; he wondered what they were talking about. He wondered what Nichols said to make her smile. Did she laugh?

Something that was still not entirely clear to Goren was why Nichols went to Eames about this case. Sure, she is a good detective, but there were other people he could have gone to. Goren thought back to when they first met Nichols. Were Eames and Nichols friendly then? Goren didn't pay much attention to him during the short time they were at Major Case together. As he thought back, he did recall Eames working with Nichols once or twice. Did she enjoy being partnered with Nichols?

"Robert?" Stevens pulled Goren out of his thoughts. "Here's some of what we gathered about Mike Wilson, it's nothing remarkable—no criminal record or anything that seems out of the ordinary. Just thought you might want a copy."

"Thanks," Goren flipped through the papers without reading anything. He turned to Stevens. "Your partner," he began, "I don't really know him, but he seems like a good detective."

"Yeah, sure." She was skeptical of his inquiry, "we work well together. I figured you knew him fairly well because of how happy he was to have you two back."

"I think he was just happy to have Eames back."

Stevens squinted a bit, "yeah, I can see that, but it was for both of you, right?"

Goren shrugged.

"Around here, they like to tell stories about the two of you," Stevens said. "'Goren and Eames this' and 'Goren and Eames that.' You're kind of like folk heroes. Everyone marvels at the things you two would pull—and get away with." She rolled her eyes. "They love to hate you."

Goren looked at her for a moment, "what are you talking about?"

"Sometimes the other detectives talk in admiration and disgust about things like you committing yourself to a prison metal ward for an unauthorized case—all while Eames is covering for you."

Goren smiled to himself, "I did pay for that one, though."

"A slap on the wrist?" she mocked.

"No," Goren groaned, "a long suspension. I expected it, but I paid dearly in other ways."

She waited for him to explain, but he didn't. "Something else happen?" she asked.

He looked over to Eames' desk and rubbed his eyes. He _was_ tired. "Oh, I don't know. It just had a lasting effect."

She had the feeling he was starting to dislike the topic. She decided not to push seemingly sensitive subjects, so she asked: "How long were you and Eames partners?"

He thought about it. "For about ten years, I guess."

"That's impressive. Did you keep in touch after…?"

"No, we didn't."

"Really?"

"Yesterday was the first time I saw her in years."

"After a decade together, you just went your separate ways?"

Goren shrugged, "Yeah. We had different lives, I guess. A few months after we left, we kind of finalized our partnership. Truthfully, I never really thought I'd see her again."

"What happened? Have a falling-out or something?" She asked, genuinely interested.

"No," he said with a sigh. He looked at his watch. "Maybe I _should_ get some sleep."

Goren and Stevens shared a cab home. In Goren's indirect storytelling methods, he briefly told her about his life right after being fired: How he tried to get a job with the FBI, but there were no jobs waiting for him; how he taught in Germany for a short time; and how he spent his downtime looking for his nephew. Stevens didn't ask any questions (why was he looking for his nephew?), she just listened quietly in the backseat of the cab.

What got her attention, though, was when he confessed that in those first months after Major Case, he had no intention of getting his badge back. He wanted nothing to do with the NYPD or any kind of law enforcement.

"But eventually you did get your badge back," Stevens said. "What made you change your mind?"

"Eames. She made me see things differently." He smiled, "She's always had that effect on me." He looked out the window of the moving cab. "I ran into her at a park—after I got back from Germany—and she had just adopted this little girl. It had only been a few months—maybe seven or eight months—and Eames just seemed so different." He thought about it for a second, "well, maybe not different, exactly, but more _her_—if that makes any sense. It was like her best qualities were suddenly more prominent." He rubbed his eyes again, "After I saw her that day, we decided to sort things out. So I showed up to her house the day before Christmas Eve and she changed my mind."

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of her apartment building. "Aw," she moaned a bit sarcastically, "just when the story was about to get good."

"There's no story. She convinced me to try for a different division; her father knew some people I needed to talk to; I got my badge back. End of story." He gave a shallow shrug.

"Maybe you can give me the long version some other time. Goodnight." She pushed open the door and swung her long legs out of the cab in one graceful movement. As the cab took Goren a few more blocks home, he thought back to that last day spent with Eames.

It was something he had not thought about in a long time, but he remembered it vividly: It was exactly one in the afternoon when he rang the doorbell on that December 23rd five years ago. Snow was falling all around him. The atmosphere was so crisp that it seemed as though the air itself could snap. Then, the door opened and Eames appeared. She looked disheveled and slightly agitated in her worn-out pair of jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt with her hair in a ponytail. Upon seeing Eames, Goren immediately regretted agreeing to this meeting. He wasn't sure he even wanted to see her again—he wasn't angry, but he had reservations.

"Hi," she said as she moved out of the way, "come in."

"You know, if you're too busy—"

"Come inside, Bobby," she said lightly, but with enough force to stop him from finishing his sentence.

He stepped into the warm house. Her living room was decorated for Christmas and in the corner was a Christmas tree. There were lights twinkling and ribbon strung everywhere. Goren couldn't remember the last time he really celebrated Christmas, or the last time he had a Christmas tree. His mother always had a small fake tree setup on her coffee table in her later years, but that was the extent of his resent Christmas experiences, and even that wasn't very recent.

"Here," Goren held out the gift in his hand, "this is for both of you. I'm sure you already have one, but I figured it's not bad to have two."

Eames took it, "You didn't have to bring anything."

She unwrapped the paper and opened the box. Inside was a simple Christmas tree ornament with the year and _Baby's first Christmas_ etched in the side. "Oh, this is wonderful, thank you."

She walked over to the tree and hung the ornament prominently in the front. "There," she marveled at it for a moment, "it's very nice, Bobby."

The tenderness and sincerity in her voice warmed him to the bone. He had missed her. In the last eight months, it hadn't occurred to him until that moment how much he missed being around her. For a fleeting moment, he was paralyzed by her.

She pointed to the box still in his other hand.

He handed her a store-bought apple-pie, "this, too."

She smiled, "my favorite. Have a seat. You want some coffee?"

"Please."

While she went into the kitchen, Goren took off his coat and scarf and walked over to the couch. Before he sat down, he looked down into the basinet. Grace was awake and content. He smiled at her.

Eames returned quickly with a cup of coffee, "Here you go."

"Thanks." He was still looking at Grace. "She seems like an easy keeper."

"She's great," Eames said in a soft tone. "I'm lucky she has such an agreeable temperament."

"I imagine it's still a lot of work having an infant."

"More than I ever knew."

They were quite while they looked at the agreeable infant.

"So," Eames said, "what have you been up to?"

He told her about how he took a job teaching criminal profiling on a military base in Germany. He enjoyed being away, doing something different.

Their chat was slightly strained and uncomfortable. They were avoiding more difficult matters. Goren had only agreed to this meeting because he wanted answers.

After a long silence, Goren asked in the faintest tone possible, "So, why can't I call you captain?" It was so soft that it seemed as though he wasn't sure he wanted her to hear the question.

Eames smiled, "I'm sure you already know the answer to that." Though she had never told him about turning down the captain's position, she knew that he would figure it out.

"Yeah, I know, but I want to hear it from you," he said, a bit agitated. "The other day, at the park, when you told me I shouldn't call you captain, I got to thinking." He took a short breath, "I remembered how you told me _it wouldn't be for long_—so I made some calls." He ran his fingers through his hair. "You quit that night. Right? What happened? Why didn't you tell me?"

She sat quietly for a moment, "I'm not entirely sure I have a good explanation."

Goren lowered his voice and shook his head, "you're gonna have to do better than that."

"Why, Bobby?" Eames said in an even tone. "Do I need to consult you before I make career moves?"

"I'm your partner." He pointed to himself emphatically; "I expect to be told these things. I don't like feeling like a fool."

She huffed, "it's not a nice feeling, is it?"

"Did you _not_ tell me because you wanted to even the score? I didn't think you—"

"Of course not," her voice was still even and calm, "that's not why I didn't tell you."

"What then?"

"Originally, I agreed to take the job because I wanted to be captain—I was honored to do it. But when I was told I had to get rid of you or let you suffer the consequences, I realized maybe I wasn't so honored." Eames stared out the window at the snow. "I wasn't worried about the department or my future. I intended on eventually telling you. I didn't mean for it to take this long. I'm sorry."

"If we hadn't have run into each other, would you have ever called to tell me?"

"You have no room to lecture me, Bobby. And, to be honest, my life changed so fast that you weren't a big priority anymore."

Goren was stunned; he didn't expect her to say that. He looked over to Grace who was still in her basinet. Immediately he realized he was stupid to think that he could still be a priority in her life. "Okay," he rubbed the back of his neck, "its fine that you didn't want to tell me immediately, but I still don't understand why you had to quit at all?"

"When I was offered captain, I went to my dad and talked to him about the entire situation. He said I probably wouldn't be able to hold the position permanently—even if I passed the captain's exam."

"Why not?"

"He said they most likely offered me captain so that _they_ wouldn't have to deal with you—which I knew anyway—but he said it would work out better, in the long run, if I turned down the position rather than be denied the position." She wasn't looking at Goren; she was looking somewhere past him. "I just didn't want to be there anymore, and for a while I didn't want to be a cop anymore."

His agitation with her melted, "I'm sorry; it was my fault it all ended up the way it did."

She waved her hand dismissively. "No. The department handled things poorly. I mean—of all the things you should have been fired for—" She shrugged. "They used me to get rid of you. I didn't like that."

They sat without speaking or even looking at each other for a while. Goren finally stood and walked to the kitchen where he found the pie he had brought. Neatly, he sliced two pieces and returned, setting a piece of pie down in front of her.

"So," Goren said as he returned to his seat, "You're a lieutenant now?"

"Yes." She smiled, "so, you really should start calling me Lieutenant Eames. I sit in my office all day managing detectives in a very slow jurisdiction. We handle the most mundane crimes in all of New York City." She looked over to the baby in the bassinet and her face softened. "It's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Goren also looked over to the baby, "I hear it's quite a story, you and her." 


	9. Somewhere in My Memory

**Back to Major Case**

**SOMEWHERE IN MY MEMORY**

Goren eased into consciousness and found his mind working on the case. Facts and interviews and possibilities circulated at a hectic pace. He muscled his eyes open and was startled by the dense darkness before him. He couldn't see anything and for a moment didn't know where he was. Once he grasped he was in his own bed, he reached for the watch he always placed on his nightstand. It wasn't there. He felt his right wrist and found he was still wearing it. With the glow of the watch, he saw it was a little after four in the morning.

Goren closed his eyes and groaned in agony—he had only been asleep for an hour or so. Every point in his body ached with exhaustion. Even though he wanted nothing more than to sleep, his mind raced with things he needed to do. With his eyes closed, he tried to relax, to shut down his mind, but he could not. This was a common occurrence in his life, one that seemed to get progressively worse with time.

He tried to remember how he had gotten home last night; it was a blur. He vaguely remembered sharing a cab with Stevens and talking about himself. He closed his eyes tighter with embarrassment. He always hated when he divulged too much personal information.

What exactly had he said? It was difficult for him to process. His eyes were hot and his throat was raw. He wondered if he was getting sick.

When his eyes shot open again, he looked at his watch: five thirty. He was relieved to have gotten a little more sleep but knew he could get no more. He pushed off the sheets and sat at the edge of his bed for a moment, letting his bare feet sit on the cold wood floor—his body tensed in the cold of his apartment. With great mental and physical effort, he stood and made his way to the kitchen.

With a cup of instant coffee in hand, he shuffled down the short hallway to his bathroom and shut the door behind him. There was a small space heater on the bathroom floor that he plugged in and turned on. As he sat on the cold floor with his back against the door, he sipped his coffee and waited for the room to warm. His coffee mug was green with a white shamrock near the handle. Eames had given it to him. For years, she kept it in the bottom of her desk drawer filled with chocolate and candy. One day she saw Goren's MCS mug had a chip, so she dumped the candy into the drawer and gave him the mug.

Goren took a sip and remembered what he was doing last night just before he fell asleep: He was thinking about Eames. He was thinking about that day he spent with her—years ago.

As a child, when Goren had trouble sleeping, he would entrain himself by lying in bed with his eyes closed trying to remember every moment from a day gone by. He would attempt to remember every word of a conversation, visualize all that he saw and put it together with as much accuracy as possible. He would try to mentally recreate everything he had experienced—at least all the good things. Goren suspected part of his vivid memory came from that childhood practice. And before he fell asleep last night, Goren was thinking about Eames.

How far he had he gotten in his memory of that December 23rd, he did not know. He pressed the back of his head against the bathroom door and tried to remember. What he remembered about that day years ago was Eames telling the story of how she came to adopt Grace.

"I hear it's quite a story, you and her," Goren recalled asking Eames. He was deeply curious about this situation.

He remembered how Eames gave a little laugh and said, "She was born on the Fourth of July."

She started from the beginning. It was about a month after _everything_ happened and Eames was not working. She had quit and was not sure what her next step would be. Days were spent in her mother's garden pulling weeds, trimming the trees and mowing the lawn. She had enough money to live off of for a while and was in no rush to make a decision.

For the first time since she joined the academy, she didn't have the pressure of working long hours or the obsession of a case. Suddenly, there was no place to be and nothing to do. She liked the feeling, but knew it could not sustain her forever.

Her father suggested she start looking for work.

"Take the lieutenant's exam, Alex," her father suggested. "At least then you'll have a few more options."

So she did as he advised. She passed the test, and within days of being notified, she got calls from a few different facets of the NYPD asking her to apply for available positions. She was reluctant, but she put in an application nearly everywhere there was an opening, including the second smallest precinct in the NYPD.

It was an undersized, old building and reminded Eames of pictures her father had of his time as an officer in the '70's. It was in a part of the city that she had never really visited before, a kind of sleepy alcove in the big city. When she first walked in, she nearly laughed at the striking difference this precinct had with the rest of the places she had interviewed. It was no One Police Plaza. It was small, there were only a few computers, and the furniture was older than most of the young cops who worked there. To her amazement, Eames liked the small, outdated place.

When they offered her the job, she took it, and she became a working lieutenant. The first thing she did was clean her new office. More than fifty years of dirt and grime had accumulated on the walls and floor.

She was settling well into her new role when her life changed. It was the Fourth of July and her entire staff was on duty. As night fell, she ordered all officers but one to take to the streets to maintain civility in her district. She didn't think there would be any trouble but figured it was a good idea. At three in the morning, as she slept on the couch in her office, a woman entered the precinct and handed her newborn to the young officer at the front desk.

The woman told the officer that the little girl was only seven hours old and she could not take care of her. When the woman left, the officer took the baby into Eames' office.

"Lieutenant?"

Eames sat up and rubbed her eyes. "Yes?"

"Some lady just gave me her baby."

Eames slowly turned to the officer who cradled the baby. He looked terrified. "What?" she asked.

"A woman came in and said that she just gave birth to this baby. She said she can't take care of her and then left. I guess it's like—you know—that law, right?" The officer was new. He had only been a cop for three months.

"Yeah, the Safe Haven law." Eames motioned for him to bring the baby to her.

"I didn't get her name or anything, Lieutenant. I'm sorry. Was I supposed to?"

"No," Eames said, "You did fine."

Still holding the baby, the officer sat on the couch next to Eames.

Eames looked at the sleeping baby. "So, the mother just turned her over?"

"Yeah, I asked her if she was sure, and she just kept saying she couldn't take care of her."

"Okay, give me the baby and call Child Protective Services. They'll come get her."

After the officer called CPS, he went back into the office and told Eames that they were not going to be able to take the baby tonight.

"Why?" Eames asked, "It's their job. They don't have any choice."

"I don't know," the officer said. "That's what they told me."

Eames got on the phone and they explained that they were understaffed because of the holiday weekend and there was no one who could get the baby at this time of night.

"I don't believe you," Eames said over the phone. "There is not one person who can do this?"

CPS continued to explain their situation. The holiday and understaffing was the problem. Eames offered to bring the child to them, but that was also a problem because there was not an authorized person handle the processing.

"What if this was an emergency? You would have to take her then, right?"

No, they told her, in an emergency, the baby would be taken to a hospital where they would care for her until CPS could take over. They suggested Eames take the baby to the hospital.

"Alright," Eames was too tired to argue anymore.

Eames took the baby to the hospital and up to the third floor nursery. In the sea of hallways and a distracted medical staff, Eames decided to stay with the child.

"Do you have the paperwork to release the child to us?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," Eames handed the doctor the forms. "So, the baby is healthy?"

"She's perfect," said the doctor. "Beautiful little girl. I can't imagine someone not wanting her."

The baby started to cry and Eames walked over to the crib and looked at the child. It was the first time she really looked at the newborn—the first time she looked into her eyes. "You'll be okay," she whispered. Eames looked to the doctor, "so what happens now?"

"She'll stay here in the nursery until CPS comes, and then hopefully she'll get a foster family soon." The doctor looked over the forms, "I'll just have my chief of staff sign and then you can take your copy and be on your way."

"Okay."

The baby was still crying and Eames looked through the window to the next room where rows of newborns slept—all of them, she imagined, had homes and parents waiting for them. She picked up the baby and sat in a chair. The child stopped crying after a moment. As Eames cradled the baby, a strange connection washed over her. It reminded her of the kind of feeling she had after she gave birth to her nephew.

"I can take the baby for the weekend," Eames told the doctor. It was an abrupt decision and she was shocked as the words left her mouth, but she was compelled. A weekend was all she needed.

During that weekend, Eames fell in love with the child. It was sudden and unexpected, but it was love. Never in her life had Eames made such an unplanned decision, and never had she been so sure of something that terrified her so much. Soon she adopted the baby and named her Grace.

It was a story Eames told Goren with delight. She expressed her fear of being a parent, and her deeper fear of being a single parent. She told him how it was the best and most frightening thing that ever happened to her. She marveled at how it must have been fate—and fate was something she never really believed in—but there was no other explanation. It was meant to be.

Goren specifically remembered there was a point at the end of her story when tears fell down Eames' cheeks as she said, "I don't know who I'd be without her."

That was something Goren never forgot, in fact, it was something he thought about often. He was in awe at how much Eames loved this child; it was a love he had never come close to feeling. It was a transformational love. This love had changed her, and it made her stronger, it made her better. Suddenly, Eames, who had never been willing to express much emotion, was freely expressing her feelings for another human being to another human being. And as Goren listened, he felt a deep jealousy. He was happy for her, but he wanted to change to. He always saw Eames as someone who had similar internal problems. Together, they were both lost. But now she had changed and he had not. It was as if they really had parted for good.

As Goren remembered all of this, he pressed his head against the bathroom door and felt the same jealously again. That was five years ago, and in those five years he had not been able to shake that feeling. In those five years, he had not found a life he was happy with and Eames had. It occurred to him that he was not jealous of Eames and her life, but he was embarrassed by his own. He was embarrassed by the fact that he had no life outside of work. He just went through each day with no real direction; days turned into weeks and then years.

The space heater had finally warmed the bathroom. He sipped his coffee and, with much exertion, pulled himself off the floor and turned on the shower.

His phone buzzed; it was a text from Eames: _You awake?_

He called her. When she answered, her voice was raspy and her words muddied. "Did I wake you?" She whispered.

"No."

"I figured you were awake."

"Yeah, but why are you? You hate mornings." He said, also whispering.

"Well, I don't sleep well when Grace is not here—too quite."

"Right, she's at your sister's house."

"Yep."

Goren smiled to himself as she talked. He found her sleepy voice comforting.

"So," she said, "I was thinking maybe we should head to the crime scene before we head to the office. If we go soon, we'll be able to see what the neighborhood looks like at about the time of the murder."

"Okay. I'll pick you up if you want. Your house is on the way." He paused, "Do you still live at the same place?"

"Yeah, I do. My place is not on your way, though."

"It's okay."

The water was hot by the time he got off the phone, so he took off his sweatpants and tee-shirt and let the water spill over his aching body.


	10. Someone Found Me

**Back to Major Case**

**SOMEONE FOUND ME**

Eames sat on the front steps of her small house and waited for Goren to arrive. It didn't take long for him to appear. The sun was just rising as Eames opened the car door and got into Goren's red Jeep.

"Am I late?" Goren asked.

Eames handed him a thermos of coffee. "No. Why?"

"Because you were waiting outside in the cold."

"I was only there a minute."

Goren shook his head and handed her a blueberry muffin, "you really have changed—the old Eames never would've waited outside in the cold morning."

She smiled, "you're right, I have changed."

"I hope you haven't changed too much."

"Well, I still hate mornings."

"That's good to hear."

As they drove away, Eames sat in the passenger's seat and watched the world pass by. She envied the people who were still asleep in their warm beds and soft sheets. Lucky people. She looked over to Goren whose eyes were firmly fixed on the road and knew that he was deep in thought.

It wasn't a surprise; he was perpetually deep in thought. It was one of those things that Eames both loved and hated about Goren. His cerebral nature made him interesting, but it also made him distant. No wonder he had trouble sleeping—his mind never stopped. She wondered what exactly went through his head at this early hour. There were times, long ago, when she felt like she could understand fragments of what he was thinking, but now she was left wondering. She pressed her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. The warmth of the car heater and the familiar smell of Goren's aftershave made Eames feel safe.

"Hey?" She said suddenly, "is this your car?"

He smiled a bit, "Yes. I didn't bother stopping by 1PP to get the MCS car. That's really out of my way."

"Okay—but this is yours? What happened to the Mustang?"

"—I totaled it."

"When did this happen?"

His eyes were still fixed on the road. "About two years ago."

"You totaled it?" Eames asked. "Did you get into an accident or something?"

He yawned. "Yeah. It was late one night and I was driving upstate—there was ice on the road and I plowed into a tree."

"Oh my god—"

"I wasn't drinking or anything," he said just to clarify, "and no one else was involved. I was just driving too fast."

Eames' voice got louder. "You could have killed yourself. Were you hurt?"

He shrugged. "I was lucky someone found me."

Eames leaned forward but was inhibited by the seatbelt. "What do you mean _someone found you_?"

"I was in rural area. Not a lot of people around. The tree I ran into was close to an inn and someone called 911." He tilted his head, "I don't remember that though. I just remember being in the hospital after surgery."

"Surgery?" Eames felt her mouth gapping open. The information almost didn't seem to make sense. In a whisper she asked, "How bad was it?"

"I'm okay, Eames."

"You drove into a tree, totaled your car and needed surgery. It doesn't sound like you were okay."

He glanced at her and sighed, "I had a concussion, some internal bleeding and other stuff."

"Bobby—"

"I'm okay."

"How long where you in the hospital?"

"I don't know—2 weeks."

Eames felt slightly disoriented. She just stared at Goren as he drove.

He felt her gaze and said, "I'm fine, really."

She reached up and brushed back the hair on his temple. "Is that how you got that scar?" The scar started just before his hairline, and as she traced it with the tip of her finger, she found it continued for about an inch under his hair.

"Yeah, that's how I got the scar, but I'm all right."

They continued to drive as the sun came into full view. Between buildings, the morning sun burned like a spotlight through the clear sky. As Eames looked at Goren's profile, the sun came poring through the driver's side of the car and she had to squint to make out the lines of his face. The longer she looked, the less she recognized him. Eames could see that Goren was fine, but the fact that she had no idea he was in an accident bothered her. All she could think of was him sitting alone in the hospital for two weeks.

Faintly, Eames said, "you could've died and I wouldn't have known."

Goren felt his throat tighten as he thought back to the day he was released from the hospital. It was the worst day he had had in a long time. Not even the physical pain of the accident hurt as bad as having no one to pick him up and take him home. He took a cab home.

Eames finally asked, "Why didn't you call me or have someone call me?"

"And say what?" he asked softly, almost remorsefully. "_Hey Eames, I know I haven't seen you in a few years but I'm in the hospital and need someone to bring me a get-well balloon_."

"Yes, that's exactly what you should have done. I'm your partner."

"No, actually Eames, we weren't partners anymore," he said flatly.

"It doesn't mean I just stopped caring about you," she said. "Bobby, I spent ten years of my life—"

"Then why didn't we keep in touch?" He asked.

She shook her head. "It's not just my fault we haven't seen each other."

He slowed the car to a stop on the street where Erin Copland was killed. Goren turned to Eames and said, "Once a day, the nurses asked me if there was anyone they could call, and I always wanted to tell them to call you."

"Why didn't you?"

"You had a baby. I didn't want to bother you."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"I don't know what to tell you, Eames." He squeezed the steering wheel. "Yes, I could've died. Yes, I should've called you. Yes, I would've liked to have had someone notice that I wasn't around—but none of that happened."

Eames took a deep breath. Already the day was off to a bad start. She opened her door and got out; Goren did the same.

Goren pulled out the crime scene photos and walked around holding them in the air then placing them on the pavement. While his focus was very narrow, Eames turned her attention outward. She looked around at all of the buildings and saw people begin to leave for work.

"What's the time of death?" Eames asked.

Goren shifted through some notes. "Between five and seven a.m."

Eames looked at her watch. "So she could have been killed at about this time."

"I'm guessing closer to five," Goren said, "before dawn."

Eames leaned against the Jeep. "What was she doing here? She's far from home, work and school."

"They recovered the murder weapon—just a plank of wood. Probably came from a dumpster," Goren said aloud.

"Not planned. Not a robbery."

"A crime of passion?"

"You know," Eames said, "we're not that far from the Stock Exchange."

"I don't think we should try to tie Nichols and Stevens' suspect to this case just yet."

Eames let out a long sigh, "I'm not tying anyone to our case—got it? I've done this before."

"Fine."

By the time they had finished, it was close to nine a.m. They were ready to head back to MCS where Nichols and Stevens were ready to question their suspect, Mike Wilson.

In the observation room Goren and Eames watched as Nichols and Stevens talked to Wilson. Nichols and Stevens spoke, but the suspect said nothing—not a word. Even the lawyer was silent. But, to the surprise of Goren and Eames, the other detectives didn't seem to mind.

Stevens and Nichols stopped talking and left the interrogation room.

"So," Goren said to Nichols, "he's not talking."

Nichols shrugged, "nope."

"Okay," Goren looked to Eames then back to Nichols, "so what now?"

Nichols looked through the window and smiled. "We wait."

Stevens could see the confusion on Goren's face. "We're waiting for the surveillance video to arrive," she said. "A witness says they saw him enter the Stock Exchange, so we'd like the video to confirm."

"What time did the murder take place?" Eames asked.

"About midnight."

"But the Stock Exchange was closed. What'd he do? Hide in the building just to kill the brokers? Do you have motive?"

"We don't know," Nichols said. "We need to see the video first."

Eames asked, "So you're not worried about interviewing him yet."

"Nope."

Eames was aggravated, "great."

Goren looked through the window to Mike Wilson. He was not smug or confident. He looked terrified.

Goren asked, "you just going to leave him there?"

"For a while," Nichols said. "If you want to talk to him about your case, go ahead."

"We'll wait."

The rest of the afternoon was spent deep in research. Goren and Eames worked on their case silently as they sifted through piles of paper and hundreds of emails, phone records and bank statements.

Eames looked at the time: it was three in the afternoon. Grace was just getting out of school. She looked at her pile of paperwork and felt trapped.

All afternoon Nichols and Stevens interviewed their suspect for a few moments then took him back to the holding cell. They repeated this process several times. Eames could tell Goren was not amused by their technique. They were just stalling while they and four video technicians sifted through hours of intricate video surveillance.

"Goren," Eames said, as she looked through phone records, "our victim has worked with Mike Wilson for a while, but she just started receiving calls from him about three months ago. She never called him, though, he always called her. And the week before her murder he called her about three times a day. In fact, he called her two times just hours before her murder: once around two a.m. and another at four."

"He may have been the last one to talk to her."

Eames smiled, "maybe we should talk to him."

Goren smiled.

Eames stepped into the video observation room. Nichols was alone.

"Where did the rest of them go?" Eames asked about Stevens and the video technicians.

"They needed a break."

"But not you?"

He stopped the video. "I'll take a break when my partner gets back." A smile stretched across his face and as he swiveled his chair to face Eames. "Maybe," he said, "you can join me on my break."

"Maybe," Eames said dryly. "What I really want is to interrogate your suspect."

"Sure. He has not said a word, though. I'm not exaggerating either—not one word."

"Zack, have you ever thought that maybe you talk so much that he can't get a word in edgewise?"

"Funny," he said with a straight face. "Wouldn't it be great if committed both of these murders?"

Eames tilted her head, "I guess."

"You know what I mean—"

"I honestly never know what you're talking about, Zack."

"And that's why you love me."

She patted him forcefully on the cheek. "Something like that. So, is Wilson still in the interrogation room?"

"Yep, him and the lawyer."

Eames walked over to the interrogation rooms and saw Wilson sitting in one room without movement while his lawyer ate a sandwich. Eames then walked into the other room where Goren and Detective Sam Heart hung photos of their victim. Most photographs were of her while she was alive. Erin Copland was beautiful and plain. She was young, and the photographs emphasized the point. Among the large photos of Copland alive, there were noticeably smaller ones of her crime scene and autopsy.

Detective Heart hung the last photo and looked to Eames, "you two really know how to make a point."

Eames shrugged and looked around the room; all four walls had photos. "It's more like an experiment."

Goren smiled, "yep, an experiment."

Across the squad room, the captain asked Nichols how things were going with the video.

"Fine."

"Good," the captain said, "what's going on over there?"

Nichols looked toward the interrogation rooms. Goren, Eames and Heart had pulled the officer standing outside of Wilson's room aside and were talking with him.

"I can't be sure."

They watched as Goren and Eames finished talking and stepped into the observation room. Just as they disappeared behind closed doors, the entire squad room seemed to take note. Everyone suddenly turned their attention to the interrogation rooms. The captain watched as the other detectives slowly—and as inconspicuously as possible—inched their way to toward the interrogation rooms.

The captain walked over to a detective and asked, "what's going on?"

"Goren and Eames are going to interrogate a suspect."

The captain waited for further details, but got nothing. "—and?" she asked, "Why is everyone so concerned?" The attention of the entire room was focused in their direction as if a movie were about to being.

"Well," the detective said, "I've only heard stories, but their interrogation techniques are legendary."

"I'm sure that's one of the reasons they were fired," the captain muttered.

Wilson and his lawyer continued to wait in the interrogation room. They were startled when their room went black. The only light in the room came from the window in the door.

"Great," the lawyer said. He stood and opened the door. "Hey," the lawyer called to the officer standing in the hallway, "What's going on? The lights are out in here."

The officer looked into the room and noted the darkness. He jiggled the light switch. "I don't know," the officer said.

"This is ridiculous," the lawyer said, "my client cannot sit in this dark room."

The officer shrugged, "let me just move him while we have maintenance take a look." He escorted Wilson and the lawyer to the other interrogation room.

Goren and Eames watched from the observation room as Wilson entered the room plastered with photos.

"What the hell is all of this?" The lawyer asked.

The officer shrugged, "I don't know. Do you wanna go back to the other room?"

"Of course not," the lawyer said. "Someone needs to clean this up, though. It's unprofessional."

The officer left and shut the door behind him.

Wilson slowly observed the photos and sat down. His posture was even more slumped than before. His eyes darted from his lawyer to the walls and back again, but his lawyer didn't notice.

Wilson looked to his left and stared at the autopsy photo; it was small, about wallet size, but he noticed it immediately.

In the observation room, Goren and Eames watched Wilson carefully.

"What are you two doing?" The captain asked once inside the observation room.

"Observing as suspect," Eames said.

The captain walked up to the window and saw the photos in the other room. "What's all that?"

Goren looked away and said, "Those are photos of our victim."

"He had extensive contact with Copland just before her death," Eames added.

"Then question him. I don't know what the two of you used to pull around here, but don't play games."

Goren was looking through the window when he said, "He's terrified. Look how his hands are leaving moisture spots on the table. And he keeps looking to his lawyer for support and guidance. He needs a confidant."

Nichols and Stevens entered the room. "May we join the party?" he asked.

The captain looked at the four detectives and said, "This man has been here for almost twenty-four hours. You need to make progress or let him go." She turned to Goren and Eames, "this better result in something."

"Okay, Captain," Eames said. She turned to Goren, "let's clean up."

Goren followed dutifully.

When they entered the interrogation room, Goren looked at Wilson and the lawyer and asked, "who the hell are you?"

The lawyer let out a moan.

"Why are you in our room?" Goren asked. "Who the hell put you here?"

"We were in the other room before the lights went out."

"Lights?"

"Yep."

Goren looked to Eames and maintained an aggressive stance. "Stay here."

Goren left and slammed the door behind him.

Eames stood in the room with an unusually timid posture. She smiled apologetically to the lawyer.

"You and the big guy new here?" the lawyer asked. "I've been in and out of here for about three years and don't recognize either of you."

"Yes," Eames said softly, "we've been here less than a week."

He pointed to the walls, "this your case?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"You know I can't discuss this with you." She said regretfully.

Lawyer walked over to a crime scene photo. "Well, it looks like a dead prostitute, but there must be more to it than that because you guys have the case."

Wilson sat up straight and looked to his lawyer and then to Eames. She took note.

"I'm right—" the lawyer said blankly.

"Sure," Eames said. "It is more than just a dead hooker."

"I don't think she's a hooker," Wilson said softly.

His lawyer waved his hand dismissively. "I've been doing this for a long time kid."

In the observation room Goren, Stevens, Nichols and the captain watched. Goren sifted his weight and said, "Wilson is uncomfortable with our victim being called a prostitute."

Nichols looked to Stevens, "that's the first thing I've heard out of him."

The lawyer walked around the room and seemed entertained. "Maybe this hooker had famous clientele." He smiled and said, "she could name names and everyone wanted her dead."

The lawyer spoke as if he were narrating a movie of the week. He walked the room slowly with his hands behind his back, analyzing each photo as if he were in a museum looking at fine art.

Wilson sat motionless. Eames thought he looked like he was going to be sick. She sat down across from Wilson and folded her hands in front of her. The reserved posture she portrayed with the lawyer became warm and understanding with Wilson. "Would you like any water?" Eames asked Wilson.

The lawyer, with his back to Eames said, "I'm fine."

Eames smiled at Wilson and shook her head.

Wilson smiled just a bit.

Goren noticed how Wilson was taking to Eames. "She's good," Goren said aloud. He grabbed his notebook and left the room.

The captain looked to Nichols and Stevens, "what are they doing?"

"I don't know," Stevens said, "but I think they do."

Goren pushed open interrogation room door. "Hey, Mike, I hear you killed a few stockbrokers."

Wilson's lawyer spun around. "What are you doing?"

Goren smiled, "but don't respond to that." He turned to the lawyer, "do I know you from somewhere?"

"Can my client leave?"

"No."

Eames gave Wilson a sympathetic shrug. Goren sat next to her and leaned halfway across the metal table and stared at Wilson.

"Do you have allergies?" Goren asked Wilson.

He didn't say anything.

"Because your eyes are bloodshot and watery."

The lawyer stepped forward, "detective, please."

Goren stood and grabbed some photos from the wall. The lawyer suspiciously watched his every move, but Wilson kept his eyes on Eames. She felt like he was trying to tell her something.

Goren placed the photo on the table and sat down next to Eames. "She is beautiful," Goren said of the victim. "Her name was Erin Copland. But you know that, right? You worked together."

"Don't say anything," the lawyer interjected. He then looked to Goren, "You can't accuse my client of every murder investigation in this building."

Goren held up a crime scene photo. "She's not so good looking in this picture, now is she."

Wilson looked down and stared at the floor.

"You should see this, Mike," Goren said.

Wilson's breathing quickened.

"Whoever did this was good."

Wilson groaned as if he were in pain.

"Goren," Eames said forcefully, "can I speak to you for a moment?"

They both left the room and walked into the observation room.

Nichols said, "he's upset but not surprised by Copland's murder."

"He didn't do it, but he wants to share something." Eames said.

"He's looking for someone to trust," Goren said.

Eames went back into the room alone. "Sorry," she said to Wilson and the lawyer. She sat down across from Wilson and stacked the photos. "What do you know about Erin?"

"Don't say a word," the lawyer said.

Eames continued in a warm and even tone, "I know you knew she was dead long before you got here last night. We're going to find out the truth and make sure she gets justice, and you can help us get this over with. Her family and friends would like to move on."

Tears fell down Wilson's face.

"What happened?"

He just sat there for a moment and said, "I don't know who did this, but I know she was friends with one of those brokers you think I killed—a guy named Romano."

"Okay," the lawyer said, "I would like a moment with my client."

Eames joined the rest in the observation room.

"Find out what you can about Romano," the captain said. "I guess these cases are connected."

Nichols, Stevens, and the captain left the room. Goren looked to Eames, "that was good."

She smiled, "I haven't done that kind of thing in a long time. It was fun."

"Like riding a bike."


	11. His Mother's Funeral

**Back to Major Case**

**HIS MOTHER'S FUNERAL**

"I'm going home for the night," Eames said to Goren after they left the interrogation room.

He tilted his head and looked to the ground, "—okay—I guess I'll talk to Wilson."

Eames could see the frustration on his face. "I have to go, Bobby. I'm going to get Grace."

"Yeah, sure."

Goren watched Eames put on her coat and walk to the elevator. Despite his confidence in his own interrogation skills, he had little hope that Wilson would talk to anyone but Eames. As she stood in front of the elevator, the captain walked up to Eames and began gesturing to the holding cell where Wilson sat. Even at a distance Goren could see Eames was aggravated. Her body language changed only slightly, but he learned long ago that those slight changes in her expression were more telling than her larger outbursts.

The elevator doors opened but she did not get in. The captain and Eames walked back to Goren.

"Goren," Eames said with a sigh, "the captain thinks that I'll be the only one to get anything out of Wilson. I told her you're the one who can get anyone to talk."

Goren looked to the captain then back to Eames. He was unsure what to say.

"Detective," the captain said to Goren, "I believe Eames has gained slight trust with Wilson, and if we want him to talk tonight, then it should be with her. Do you agree?"

Goren maintained eye contact with Eames. He knew what she wanted him to say, but he could not. "I agree," he said softly.

"Good," the captain said. "Eames, within the next few hours I want you to talk to Wilson again."

Eames waited for the captain to leave before she said, "Thanks a lot, detective. I appreciate you helping me out."

"The captain is right, Eames. You need to be the one to talk with him."

"I just want to go home and see my daughter, but now I can't."

"Hey, it wasn't my idea take on this case. No one forced you."

She walked back to the elevator. Goren had never been one to chase her down, but he felt compelled. "Eames, where are you going?"

"Don't worry; I'll be back to talk to Wilson just like the captain said."

The elevator doors opened and Eames stepped in. Goren held the doors and said, "I didn't want to come back here," he pointed to her forcefully, "but I did it because _you_ asked me. I don't see what the big deal is if you spend a few more hours here tonight."

She didn't look at him when she said, "In the past, whenever you needed me, I covered for you. I never had to think about it."

Two people stepped into the elevator with Eames. Goren moved out of the way and watched the doors close. He went back to his desk and tried to concentrate on the case, but found it impossible.

Eames sat across the street from One Police Plaza on a cold bench and called her sister and spoke to Grace. Regretfully, she told Grace that she would be working late again and would not see her until tomorrow. Grace was a bright and good-natured child who took the news in stride. It was Eames who was having a difficult time.

She watched the sun dip below the horizon and let the cold air fill her lungs. For about an hour Eames sat on the bench and questioned her decision to return for this one case. Knowing it would demand the kind of hours she was no longer willing to give, she wondered why she even agreed. As a cop, she loved major case, but as a mother, she did not. The feeling of guilt and obligation made Eames resent Nichols for dragging her into this. She didn't _need_ to be here. All she wanted was to go back to her small precinct and have dinner with her daughter.

"Alex?"

Eames looked over her shoulder and saw Goren standing next to her bench with two hot drinks and a large paper bag.

"May I sit down?" he asked.

She nodded.

He sat down and handed her a steaming drink. "It's tea," Goren said.

She nodded again.

He reached into his bag, pulled out a sandwich and handed her half.

Eames was slightly softened by his thoughtfulness, but she was also upset that he came and found her. She wanted to be alone. They ate in silence while the sky darkened and air cooled.

In spite of her anger with Goren, Eames was reminded of the thing she liked most about Goren: his quietness. He was the only man she had ever known who could sit in complete silence without filling the void with meaningless chatter. Even her husband couldn't sit in silence for long. Eames liked the fact that she didn't have to talk to Goren.

"If you want," Goren said, ruining the silence, "you can leave. I know you feel obligated to be here, but you can quit the case. I'll finish up."

Eames sighed, "I don't want to quit, Bobby."

"You don't like being away from Grace, and working here you don't have a life—I get it."

"No, you don't get it, Bobby, because if you did, you would've told the captain you could handle interviewing Wilson."

Goren ran a hand through his hair, "you're right. I wasn't thinking of you when I agreed with the captain. I was thinking of the case," he paused, "and more than that I was thinking of myself."

"Grace has a Thanksgiving play coming up." Eames rubbed her eyes, "I should be home helping her memorize her one line."

"Then go."

"I don't really have a choice at this point."

"I'm sorry, Eames. I know you would have covered for me—you always did. I should've told the captain that I could interview Wilson alone."

She sipped her tea.

"You know," he said softly, "it felt great to be in the interrogation room again. It was like old times, like no time had passed, but I can see that this isn't us anymore."

"Maybe not, but we still need to finish."

In a lot of ways it was like old times. There was a time when Goren and Eames worked together well but were privately dissatisfied with each other. One moment things would be fine and the next they had a hard time being in the same room. They overcame that rough patch, but it took a toll. Moments like these are evidence of that rough patch, but they would overcome this as well.

"I'm happy you're okay, Bobby."

He tilted his head.

"The accident—I happy you're okay after the accident."

Eames watched his face soften and his eyes fixate on her.

"Thanks," he whispered.

Eames pressed her lips together before saying, "even though we lost contact, I always felt like you were still around—just a phone call away. If something had happened to you—" she fell silent while trying to process her words.

"I'll always be around," he said.

"I hope you're right."

"Then stop thinking about this," Goren said. "It was a while ago, and I'm fine."

"It just worries me to think that you could've died and I would've had no idea."

Goren ran his hand through his hair. "If I had died," he said softly, "you would've found out eventually."

"Eventually—"

He rubbed his hands together. "You're in my will, so eventually someone would've contacted you."

Her eyebrows rose.

"It's true, Eames."

"Do I get your criminology books?" She mocked.

He shrugged, "and anything else you want."

"What?"

"I don't have a lot, but I named you executor of my estate. There are instructions about family documents and things like that. If my nephew is around—and granted he's nothing like my brother—you can give him a small sum. Then you can keep the rest."

"You never told me about this."

"It never came up," he said seriously.

"Why me?"

"You'd know what I want. I trust you."

Eames took a deep breath, "When did you decide this?"

He chose his words carefully. "After my mother's funeral. I felt like you were the only one who—" he paused and rubbed his eyes, "you were the only person who ever knew me."

Eames thought back to his mother's funeral. It was a hectic time, and even though it was a horrible time for Goren, Eames felt the pressure too. "Your mom's funeral?" Eames said to herself trying to jog her memory.

Goren heard. "You were the only person who took care of me when I needed it."

"I don't remember doing much for you—"

"It was one of those times where you had my back. You may not remember, but I do."

"I remember—" she said softly. And she did remember. She remembered the funeral, Goren's vacant eyes and the church where the funeral was held.

The church was old, small and charming. It had the qualities of being in an old photograph, with its brick exterior and stained-glass windows. Eames remembered the front staircase and the heavy wooden doors. Inside had the same photographic qualities as the exterior, and when she walked, her footsteps echoed through the room.

Eames remembered that there were not as many people at his mother's funeral as she had hoped; the first three rows were only sparsely filled and the last rows were empty. The casket was closed and flowers were neatly placed. Eames walked down the center aisle slowly and saw the Goren sitting alone in the first pew. Standing behind Goren was Declan Gage, he chatted loudly with other mourners as if this was a gathering for him. Eames couldn't stand the sight of Gage.

The service was about to begin, so she slipped into a pew next to an elderly woman who was so elegant and proper that Eames felt awkward and underdressed in comparison.

The woman smiled at Eames and whispered, "Good day."

Even the way the woman enunciated her words spoke of class and elegance. "Hello," Eames said with a smile.

"How did you know Mrs. Goren?" the woman whispered.

"I know her son."

"It's nice of you be here."

"How did you know her?" Eames asked.

The woman smiled, "I lived next door to her when we where children. We always wrote to each other, even after we were grown."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

The woman gave a grateful nod and then turned her attention to the front of the church.

The service was short but nice. A few people spoke, but Goren did not. Then service moved to the burial site and went just as quickly. As things ended, Eames realized Frank still had not shown. She felt a trace of anger.

People stopped to talk to Goren and then filed away. Through the light crowd, Goren spotted Eames and gave a slight nod of recognition. Eames smiled warmly.

"Will you be attending the gathering at her son's home?" The woman asked Eames.

Eames thought for a moment; she had not planned on it, but in light of Frank not being around, she thought maybe she better. "Yes. I'm going there now; would you like to come with me? I can drive us."

"Yes, please."

As Eames drove the woman to Goren's house, the woman said, "My dear, I do not believe I gave you my name. I'm Grace Weaver."

"I'm Alex Eames."

"Just Alex?"

"Well, Alexandra."

"It's a very beautiful name, you shouldn't shorten it."

Grace sat very straight with her small hands folded neatly in her lap. Eames couldn't help but to be enthralled by her. Grace Weaver was the kind of woman who didn't seem to exist anymore. She was proper and well spoken, but most of all, she seemed to have the knowledge of the entire world tucked away in her simple handbag.

"Tell me, how do you know Robert?"

"We work together. We're NYPD detectives."

"Oh, what a difficult profession, especially for a young woman."

Eames smiled at being called a _young_ woman. "Yes, it can be difficult."

"Do you enjoy it?"

Eames thought about it for a moment. No one had ever asked her that question before. "It's not a job that's always enjoyable," Eames finally said. "It's a job where the reward has to make up for the lack of enjoyment, I guess. On a daily basis, I think I would enjoy being a gardener more than a cop, but I don't think I would feel the same way about being a gardener. I feel like what I do is important. It's something I'm good at. In fact, my ability as a detective is the only thing I feel completely confident in."

"You're blessed to have found your talent."

She nodded. "It's almost like an obsession." Eames had never vocalized this feeling, but continued, "I feel like with every case I solve, the world is that much better. It's a simple idea, and maybe a naive one, but I feel like I'm putting the world back in order. It's thankless and frustrating and difficult, but I'm doing my part."

"You are putting the world back in order," she said.

"Thank you," Eames said. "Did you say you and Mrs. Goren were childhood friends?"

"Yes. We knew each other as children, but around high school I moved away. We still wrote to each other, though."

"You kept in touch your entire lives?"

"No. We lost contact for about ten years. One day, I was reading the paper and saw an obituary with her name. I couldn't be sure if it was her or not, so I did a little detective work of my own. Thankfully, it was not her, but it made me realize that I truly missed her. After that we stayed in touch as well as we could."

"I've never had a friend for that long."

"It takes work, but it makes life better."

The way Grace Weaver spoke, made Eames want to be her best friend. Eames couldn't remember the last time she connected with another person so quickly. She felt strangely comfortable with this woman.

They got to Goren's house and mingled with the other guests. Eames did her best to make sure there were enough drinks and give directions to people who were from out of town. Other than that, she maintained a low profile. Declan Gage monopolized most of the guests' attention and told bombastic stories Goren as a young man. Eames could see the embarrassment on Goren's face.

Soon, Grace Weaver said goodbye to Goren and left. Eames walked her out and was truly sad to see her go.

"It was very nice talking with, Ms. Weaver," Eames said.

"It was my pleasure," she said in a warm tone.

"Do you live in the area?" Eames asked. "I can drive you home."

"Thank you, but I called for a driver."

Across the street there was a car waiting for her with the driver waiting on the sidewalk.

"I must catch my plane home."

"Where do you live?"

"London."

Eames paused, "you came from London?"

"It was a long trip, but I asked myself the 90-year-old question and decided to make the effort."

Eames tilted her head slightly, "the 90-year-old question?"

"It is a rule I made up for myself when I was young. The 90-year-old question is this: When I am 90 years old, will this decision matter, will I regret it? I knew I would regret not coming."

Eames nodded.

"I have always tried to live my life as it comes. I try not to miss out," Grace said. "Whenever I have a significant or even insignificant decision to make, I ask myself the 90-year-old question. It's why I live in London."

"I'm guessing this 90-year-old question also requires a little risk."

Grace Weaver smiled, "maybe, but I like to think of it as faith in myself. Courage in my convictions."

"Bravery."

Grace laughed, "risk, faith, courage, bravery—all of the above. Little things can change a life."

Eames didn't want her new friend to leave, but she wished her a safe trip.

Eames sat on the curb and watched Grace Weaver's car pull away. She wondered if there were missed moments in her own life that could have gone better if the 90-year-old question had been applied. The first thing that came to mind was her husband.

If they had had children like they planned, would everything have changed? Would he have taken the undercover assignment that killed him? Would he still be alive? She thought about this as she went back inside Goren's place.

As the last few people trickled out, Eames began to clean up. Goren closed the door behind the final guest and walked to the kitchen. He watched Eames wash the dishes for a moment and realized he had not said a word to her the entire day. He wondered why she had not left yet; it was late. "You don't need to do that," he said softly.

She didn't look up. "I don't mind."

"If you do any more," he said, "I won't have anything to do when you leave."

When she didn't stop scrubbing the plate in her hand, he went the living room and sat at one end of the couch.

Eames thought about what he said and decided maybe it was best to leave the dishes to him. There was a fresh pot of coffee, so she poured two cups and went to the living room. She set one cup on the table next to Goren and sat down at the other end of the couch.

He was motionless with eyes halfway closed, jaw slacked, and posture slumped. He removed his tie and tossed it on the armchair where his jacket already resided. Then he unbuttoned and removed his neatly pressed shirt and tossed that aside, too. He sat staring straight ahead in his white t-shirt and black slacks.

Eames sipped her coffee and wondered if she should leave. "Some of your mom's friends," she broke the silence, "came long and far. They spoke of her kindly."

He leaned forward and took his coffee cup in his hands but did not drink from it. "It was nice of them to come."

"It was Jeff, right? The guy who grew up down the street from you? He was nice. Do you still keep in touch with him?" Eames asked.

"No, I haven't seen him in years. He was Frank's friend. I don't even know how he knew about the funeral."

Goren sat holding his full cup of coffee without any movement.

Eames sipped her coffee and studied Goren; she suspected he hadn't slept in days. "Jeff told me about the time you, him and Frank sold book reports to high school students when you about ten years old," Eames said. "And then your mom found out."

Eames could see Goren's expression change slightly as she watched his profile, but he was still slumped and motionless.

She continued, "He said Frank figured out what books were required at some of the high schools and then _you_ would read them and write reports. Then Jeff would sell them."

"I liked reading and going to the library," Goren said. "Frank told me he'd take me to the library every week if I read the books he wanted me to. I agreed. I was happy he wanted to spend time with me. Then he said I needed to write book reports, too. So I did. After a few months, I asked him what he did with all of the reports. That's when Jeff told me what they were doing. They said they would pay me if I kept writing." Goren paused and finally sipped his coffee.

"He said you didn't want to because it was cheating," she said.

"Yeah, but I liked being included. They paid me $1 a report."

"Jeff said they sold them for $10."

"Exactly. I finally felt so bad, I told my mom." He lifted his head a little and straightened his back. "She was so mad that she made _them_ read all the books I'd read. They hated it."

"Did you get any more of the money?"

"No, are you kidding? Frank spent his share the day he got it, but I saved the money I earned for years."

"I'm sure you did."

There was a long silence, and just as Eames was thinking about leaving, Goren shifted his weight and faced her.

"I thought he'd be here," he said. Goren chose every word carefully, "I learned long ago not to trust him, but I never thought he would miss our mother's funeral."

Eames shook her head, "some people just can't handle this kind of thing—I'm not saying it's an excuse—but—I don't know what he could be doing that's more important than being here with you."

Goren set his coffee down and took a deep, deliberate breath. She knew he did this when he was trying to maintain composure. He shifted his weight as if he were profoundly uncomfortable and took another breath. He turned and met her gaze.

Eames felt helpless and awkward. They maintained eye contact as he searched for words—she felt like he was searching for words deep inside of her. He wanted to say something, but nothing vocalized.

He finally said, "Frank is a disappointment."

There was nothing Eames could say or do to fix that problem. She lightly placed her hand on his forearm.

He shifted his weight again, still seeming uncomfortable, but this time he lay down on the couch. Cautiously, Goren rested his head in her lap. Once he settled into a comfortable position on his side, with his cheek against her dress pants, there was a long time of stillness as they both did all they could not to move.

Eames didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to comfort him or how to be the friend he needed.

Gently, Eames placed one hand on his head and stroked his hair. She slowly pulled her fingers through his wavy hair and listened to ticking of the wall clock. Though she could not see his face very well, she could tell that his eyes were closed. His chest began to expand and contract with deeper breathes, and it seemed as though his body heat was rising. She felt his cheek burning through her pants to her thigh. Even though he was burning, she noticed goose bumps up and down his arm.

She placed her other hand on his upper arm and patted it softly. He reached up with his other hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. His hand burned as hot as the rest of his body. She suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of tenderness for him.

"You did so much for your mom," she said in a whisper, "and I know she was proud of you. Maybe she wasn't always good at showing it, but you took care of her and you—" she paused. "You should know that when I met her, just that once, she spoke so highly of you. You meant the world to her."

He squeezed her hand as she continued to stroke his hair.

"She raised a wonderful man," she whispered.

His breathing continued to be heavy and uneven. Suddenly, she felt a small drop of moisture on her thigh. She looked down and saw his eyes were still closed with a trail of tears running down his cheek, on to her pant leg and through to her skin.

This made Eames more uncomfortable and nervous, but still she stroked his hair. Eventually, his breathing slowed and his tears were gone. His body relaxed and his fingers slipped away from hers. Eames felt as if his head were heavier all of a sudden. As Eames began to relax, she felt a wave of exhaustion overcome her. Her eyes were heavy.

Suddenly, Eames' eyes shot open. She wondered how long she had been asleep. What time was it? She turned to the clock over her shoulder and saw it had been about twenty minutes since she last looked. Goren was still stretched across the couch using her thighs as a pillow. She couldn't be sure, but she thought he might be asleep.

His apartment was silent, and even the street noise seemed to be gone. It was as if the outside world had stopped and they were completely alone. The silence scared Eames. She pulled her fingers through his hair again and listened to his every breath. She looked down the length of his body and noticed how his legs were folded to fit on the large couch. Despite his size, he seemed fragile.

Even in her uneasiness, she felt closer to him in that moment than she had with anyone in a long time. She thought back to when she first met him and how she immediately disliked him. She saw him as arrogant and self-indulged. She was often embarrassed and angered by him when they were in public or around other cops—he was unlike anyone she had ever known. Things got better and she began to reevaluate him, seeing his flaws as points of interest. Things were good for a long time. And when things between them began to be not so good, the pain and resentment was enormous. They had been together for so long and had been through so much. She wondered if things would ever go back to the way they were. She wondered if they would be partners until they retired. She wondered if she could handle being his partner for that long.

Heaviness gathered in her eyes and she wanted to get home. With a slight shift in her weight, Goren took note and sat up. His hair was in disarray, but oddly enough he looked better than he had all day.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She stretched and asked, "Is there anything I can do before I leave?"

He whispered something she could not quite understand.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he shook his head, "I couldn't ask you for anything more."

They walked to the front door where Goren grabbed her jacket from the closet and tenderly helped her into it.

He opened the door and avoided eye contact. She squeezed his hand and left.


	12. John Wayne & The Longest Day

**Back to Major Case**

**JOHN WAYNE & THE LONGEST DAY**

Eames spent the better part of the night and early morning talking to Wilson. He was reserved and shy, but with enough gentle pushing from Eames, they got enough information from him to start searching for a killer.

Wilson said that Copland, the dead woman, and Romano, the dead stockbroker, knew each other—they were childhood friends. Romano frequented the bakery, and they were always talking about quitting their jobs and traveling the world.

"Were they dating?" Eames asked.

Wilson didn't think their relationship was more than a friendship.

"She called me that night," Wilson said, "and she was worried. Romano was supposed to meet her and he never showed. So I kept calling her to convince her to let me pick her up and take her home—finally she told me where she was."

"And?" Eames asked.

"By the time I got to the all-night coffee shop where she was going to meet Romano, she was gone. I walked down the street and found her. I was the one who called the police from the coffee place."

"Why didn't you stay and talk to the police?"

"Because of all the money she had on her. I was scared. It seemed dangerous." He lowered his head. "I'm sorry."

"Why haven't you talked with the other detectives about this sooner? This information would have been useful hours ago."

He covered his face with his hands. Eames was too tired and angry to be sympathetic to Wilson.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"They were always talking about a guy they called John Wayne. I don't think that was his real name, though."

As Eames questioned Wilson, Goren was listening in the observation room and running searches on the clues that where unfolding. By the time Eames stepped out of the interrogation room, the sun was just coming up and Goren already had information on John Wayne. His real name was Jonathan Waynesfield and he was a successful stockbroker.

"I'm going home," Eames said as Goren began rattling off information on John Wayne. "Do whatever you want. I'll see you later."

Goren was tired as well, but the thrill of finding a lead rejuvenated him. He knew better, though, than to push Eames more than he had already. They both had been working for about twenty-four hours, and he felt bad for making her stay all night.

The bitter wind from just a few days prior was gone, and in its place where clouds in the distance. The clouds made this morning, unlike the morning before, gray and ominous.

"I'll drive you home," Goren said to Eames. She did not object.

There was not a word between them for most of the drive until she looked to Goren and said calmly, "pull over—in front of that building to the right."

He did as he was told without hesitation or question. Trust in seemingly little decisions was one of the things they mastered after all their years together. It was a small skill that held them together through the toughest times and brought them back together after their resent years apart. Not questioning a small decision like pulling the car over made their trust more effective.

He stopped the car and waited for her to include him in her thoughts.

"John Wayne lives in this building. I saw it in the records you were trying to show me before we left 1PP. Maybe we should see if we can talk to him before he goes to work."

Goren was shocked by her willingness to continue working. "Eames, we can let Nichols and Stevens handle this. I'll take you home."

"We're here," she said with a sigh, "so we might as well." She too was surprised by this decision, but as a lieutenant her desire to get things done swiftly had intensified—she wanted this case to be swift.

John Wayne's apartment building was a brand-new, multimillion dollar complex. It was so new that construction was still underway in the lobby. They asked for John Wayne and found he would not be hard to find, he was the only resident living in the building. Others were set to move in next month.

"Mr. Waynesfield," Goren said with a tap on the door, "it's the police. We'd like to speak with you for a moment."

They waited and there was no answer.

"He should still be home," Eames said as she looked at her watch. "Only idiots work this early in the morning."

The door opened and John Wayne was on the other side. He was short, wore his hair like a child and had squinty eyes. Eames wanted to shoot the person who first called this guy John Wayne.

"Hello," Goren said, "we need to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"Can it be fast? I have to get to work."

"Sure," Goren said, "do you know Erin Copland or Mike Wilson?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Okay," Goren smiled, "what about Tony Romano?"

"Nope."

"Really, because he works with you."

"I work with a lot of people."

"Right, sure. Did you hear about those stockbrokers being killed?"

"Yes, it's horrible."

"Does it worry you? You're a broker."

"Sure, it worries me a little. Is that what this is all about?"

"No, we're not working on that case."

"How about you come to my office around noon and I can be of more help. Right now I need to leave." John Wayne handed Goren a business card. "If you stop by, maybe with a picture of them, I might know who they are—or we can have my secretary pull their files."

Goren nodded. Normally he would have pushed the point, but he decided to wait. "We'll see you later, then."

John Wayne shut the door, and Goren and Eames walked down the long hallway to the elevator. Eames looked at the business card that read: _Jonathan Waynesfield "John Wayne."_

"He's hiding something," Eames said flatly. "And I think he gave himself the nickname John Wayne. Stupid."

"I'm sure he knew Tony Romano."

Just before they reached the elevator, there was a deafening sound of gunshot that echoed through the hall.

They both spun around and grabbed their guns. John Wayne was running in the opposite direction toward a fire escape.

Goren chased him down the hall, but by the time he got to the fire escape, Goren could see the John Wayne had already reached the street and was far beyond catching.

Goren walked back down the hall to where Eames was calling it in. His ears were still ringing from the gunfire. As he got closer to her, he felt his heart race and breathing become labored—he felt sick. He didn't want to alarm Eames, whose gun was holstered and phone to her ear, so he gently took the phone from her hand and said into the receiver, "we also need a bus, an officer's been shot."

"Goren?" she asked.

She watched his eyes shift down to her left arm as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

She looked down and saw blood running down the top of her hand and dripping off the tips of her fingers. "Oh, god," she whispered as sudden fear filled her senses. Goren helped her to the floor. She sat with her back to the wall as she held out her arm in an awkward position. Pain burned through the left side of her body to the point where she had no idea where it originated.

As Goren kneeled beside her, he could see a long rip in the upper arm of her coat—blood began to seep into her clothes. Through the clothing and blood, it was difficult for him to see how bad it was.

He took off his jacket and removed his tie and collared shirt. He haphazardly folded his shirt into a thick layer of fabric and pressed it against her wound. She moaned quietly in pain.

He then secured his makeshift bandage with his tie. Beads of sweat gathered on her forehead.

"Is it just your arm?" he asked.

"I didn't even know I was hit."

He nodded and carefully unbuttoned her jacket and checked for blood elsewhere. There didn't look to be any other wounds.

"You're going to be fine," he whispered.

"I'm cold."

She was shivering despite the sweat pouring down her temples.

He draped his jacket over her then sat down next to her against the wall. His heart was racing and his hands were lightly shaking. He applied pressure to the wound and Eames took a sharp breath as she pressed the back of her head against the wall.

He watched her eyelids fall slowly before shutting completely. After waiting a moment, Goren said, "You have to stay awake."

"I'm exhausted," she said, eyes still closed.

"I know. Just stay awake."

She slowly opened her eyes and turned her head to meet his gaze. "I was shot by John Wayne."

Goren let out a huff of air and smiled. "Now you have a good story to tell your family at Thanksgiving dinner."

"This has been the longest day of my life."

With Goren still applying pressure, sudden fear confounded him as he felt blood seep through the layers of cloth to the palm of his hand. He maintained eye contact with her as they both sat slummed against the wall. Soon, they heard sirens in the distance.


	13. Self Preservation

**Back to Major Case**

**SELF-PRESERVATION**

In the emergency room, Eames was thoroughly examined, and her wound was cleaned and stitched. The bullet only grazed her, leaving a long horizontal gash in her left arm halfway between her elbow and shoulder. Based on the amount of blood there seemed to be, it was hard for her to believe that it wasn't worse.

Goren sat in a chair next to her bed and watched intently as the doctor finished stitching her arm. Eames chose not to look.

"In two weeks," the doctor said, "we can take these out. You're lucky; it's only as deep as a normal, thought large, biopsy."

Eames groaned.

The doctor continued: "Don't use your arm too much for a few days. Defiantly don't lift anything. Change the dressing twice a day—at least. Don't get it wet for forty-eight hours. Okay? I'll send a nurse with a prescription, and then you can leave."

Goren could see the exhaustion and frustration on her face. "Are you sure you don't want me to call your parents or sister or brother—someone?"

"Don't call them. The last time they got a call from you it because I'd been kidnapped."

Goren shifted through draws in a supply cabinet. "Ross was the one who told them you were kidnapped." He pulled antiseptic wipes out of a draw.

"I thought it was you." Eames had not thought about those events in a long time. It almost seemed like it happened to someone else. "After I'd been kidnapped, did you think you were going to find me?" she asked seriously.

"No," Goren said without hesitation, "at least not alive."

He carefully took Eames' neatly wrapped arm and began cleaning the dried blood that remained on her hand.

"You thought I was dead?" she asked almost hesitantly.

"Logically, yes, I did." He pulled his hand to his chest and said, "I _felt_ like you were alive, though."

She watched him clean the lower part of her arm and was suddenly aware that she couldn't feel any of it. She was grateful when the nurse gave her a numbing shot, but had no idea it would leave her entire arm without feeling.

"They cleaned my arm, Goren."

"Not very well," he muttered.

"You want to know something?" Eames said slowly, "While I was trapped, I never thought I was going to die." She glanced at her bandaged arm for a moment and then said, "Don't get me wrong, I was terrified and afraid for my life, but it never occurred to me that I was going to die. Even when I heard that girl being murdered—I was sick with fear and helplessness—but I never thought about my death." She shrugged, "self-preservation, I suppose."

"Self-preservation—" he whispered to himself. "I've never felt so desperate in my life."

"Same here."

Goren stared at the cracked linoleum floor, "I'm sorry about this."

"You weren't the one who shot me."

"No, but I was the one who made you stay last night and—"

"—it's not your fault." She knew telling him it was not his fault would not be enough to convince him. He would think about it for a long time.

The clock on the wall read one in the afternoon. Eames sighed—the longest day of her life was getting longer. She looked at the bag at the end of her bed. Her bloody clothes had been stuffed inside for her to take home. "That was my favorite jacket."

"What?" he asked as he finished with her arm.

"I really liked that jacket. I'm gonna have to through it away."

Goren looked down at the white t-shirt he was wearing to point out his missing dress shirt and tie. A smiled stretched across his lips. It was a smile Eames had rarely seen on him. "What about my shirt and tie?" he asked. "They're ruined."

They both smiled in their quiet sort of way.

"I called Zack while you were being checked out," Goren said. "I told him about John Wayne and his possible connection to Copland, Romano and the stockbrokers. They got warrants and are searching his home and office now."

"Good. Shooting me makes John Wayne look very guilty."

"They're looking for him." Goren rubbed his tired eyes, "Zack told me to tell you that he and Stevens will beat the crap out of John Wayne for you."

Eames laughed. It was a laugh built of exhaustion, fear and the absurdity of it all. He rarely saw her laugh like this, though he knew it wasn't because she was happy. Maybe it was self-preservation.

"Zack is a funny guy," she said.

"Yeah. I don't know him very well," Goren said, "but you two seem close."

"Oh," Eames said, "I wouldn't say that. We kept in touch. He stops by my precinct every now and then."

Goren nodded. "That's good."

Eames rubbed her forehead and moaned.

"You okay?" Goren asked.

"No," she let out a long breath, "I forgot I was supposed to submit paperwork and stuff for my station review. And I need to hire two more detectives and a clerk—" her voice trailed off. "I forgot about all of it."

"You're still working your other job?" Goren asked.

"Well, I'm on loan to MCS, so I don't officially have to do my lieutenant stuff, but there are things that need to be done."

"You must be under a lot of pressure—"

"Ah," she flicked her hand, "I'll be fine." She looked at the clock again. "Why are we still here?"

"The prescription."

"How long does it take to scribble on paper?" She said almost to herself.

"How about I go see what's going on?" Before he left the room, Goren looked back at her as she sat in the hospital bed with a bandaged arm and a hospital gown that replaced her bloody blouse and jacket. It reminded him of the last time he saw her like this.

He remembered his relief once the captain told him she was okay. He remembered the calm he felt when he was finally able to see her. He remembered the fear that hit him when she retold a fragment of her ordeal. He even felt strangely proud of her. Eames, his partner, was able to survive and escape without anyone's help. Mostly, he remembered feeling lost once she fell asleep as he sat at her bedside.

It was many years ago, but suddenly it was all with him again. As he looked back at Eames, it was as if she were a different person. Somehow, the Eames she was then was not the Eames she is now—familiar, but not the same.

Eames noticed his hesitation at the door. She gave him a look.

That look, Goren thought, would always be the same. Suddenly, he was strangely proud of her once more. For the first time since their reunion, he saw her as his partner again.

He tilted his head and left the room in search of her prescription.

The sky had darkened significantly and rain was on the horizon. Eames opened her car door and Goren went ahead and unlocked her front door. She wore scrubs for a shirt and her arm was in a sling—though she really didn't think the sling was necessary. Goren's coat hung heavy and cumbersome over her shoulders. She tried to take it off once she was inside but realized it was a more difficult task than she had anticipated. Her left arm was still so numb from the shot they gave her at the hospital that she could not move her arm with any control. Maybe the sling was a good idea.

Goren took his coat off her shoulders and set it on the couch.

"Thanks," Eames said. "I can take it from here. You should get some sleep; we need to keep working."

"_We_ don't need to keep working. I've got this. You should just rest for a few days."

"A few days?"

"Okay, you should rest for at least the rest of the day."

She looked at the floor, "I just need some sleep—and I need to see my girl."

Goren rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath; his exhaustion was suddenly overwhelming again. That combined with the fact that he felt responsible for what had happened to Eames was almost more than he could handle. "I hate to ask you for anything, Eames, but can I get some coffee before I leave?"

"Yeah, sure." She pointed to the kitchen, "Just help yourself. I'm going to change before I pick Grace up from my sister's."

"Do want me to drive you to her house?"

"No. Just get your coffee." There was annoyance in her voice.

She disappeared down a hallway and into her bedroom. Goren heard the door close forcefully behind her. He took a deep breath and prepared a pot of coffee. As he waited, he unloaded the dishwasher and loaded it with dirty dishes, cleared the counter tops and straightened the tablecloth on the dining room table. He picked up Grace's toys that were scattered around the dining room and put them in a toy box. Then he walked down the hall to Eames' bedroom with the intention of offering her coffee, but as he got to the door, he heard the faint sound of her crying.

That sound stopped him from knocking on the door. He leaned closer to the door and listened—he was not mistaken, she was softly crying. The wall supported his weight as he listened.

He knew that she was not crying in pain, she was crying for the same reason he felt so guilty—fear. Despite the ordeal being over, she was just inches from something worse than her current wound. Her fear, he knew, had a lot to do with her being a mother.

The pit in his stomach grew as he pressed his forehead against the wall next to her bedroom door and listened to her controlled sobs.

"Alex?" he said with his forehead still against the wall.

It took a moment before she responded, "yes?" She couldn't hide her cracked voice.

"I'm going to leave. Do you need anything?"

There was silence. Goren pressed his forehead against the wall with more force and held his breath. He hoped she would give him something to do.

"No," she finally said from inside her room. "I'll see you later."

He stood next to her door and waited for her to change her mind. But she didn't say another word. He grabbed his coat and locked the front door behind him.

The heavy rain pulled Eames out of a deep sleep. It took some time for her to fully wake and force herself into a sitting position. Her bedroom was dark and the sound of rain flooded her senses. She was disoriented and a little frightened. She looked over her shoulder at the clock; it read, 10:12. She panicked and grabbed her phone; there were several missed calls from her sister asking where she was and why she had to work late yet again.

Eames pulled on a jacket and grabbed her car keys. It was raining harder than it had in a long time, and moments of lighting and thunder seemed strange for this time of year. She rang the door bell and waited for her sister to answer.

The door opened and her sister stepped aside. She had obviously been asleep. "What the hell's going on, Alex?" Elizabeth asked unhappily.

Eames took a deep breath and walked through the door. "I'm sorry."

Elizabeth shut the door and finally noticed Eames' arm in a sling. "What happened?"

"I'm okay, but I was shot."

"With a gun?"

"Yes, with a gun."

"Oh, god."

"A bullet only grazed my arm. I have a bunch of stitches, but I'm fine."

Eames sat on the couch and stared at the floor. Her heart was racing and her mind was foggy. "Are the kids asleep?"

"Yes. Did this happen today?"

"This morning. Goren and I were going to interview a suspect and it didn't go so well."

Elizabeth was less sensitive than Eames had hoped. She just stood with her arms folded. "So," Elizabeth said, "do Mom and Dad know?"

"No."

"You planning on telling them?"

"Yes. Of course. I'll do it tomorrow. What's your problem?"

"Don't you think maybe they're worried about you? I called you maybe fifteen times today because you didn't call Grace. You always call her, and today, nothing. When I couldn't get a hold of you, I was worried sick."

"I was shot, Liz. Give me a break. I didn't have a lot of time for chatting on the phone."

"A few years ago, we went weeks without talking, but now, not hearing from you when I'm watching Grace is unheard of. I was worried. Why didn't you call or have that partner of yours call—something?"

"Because I didn't want to worry anyone. I'm fine."

"I want to know immediately when something like this happens."

Eames suddenly felt like she was the other side of the car accident conversation she had with Goren. "You're right. I should have told you sooner. I was going to come over hours ago, but I fell asleep."

"Why did you even agree to do this Major Case thing again? You're working long hours, you've been shot, and you haven't seen your daughter in about three days." Elizabeth was angry.

"You think I like being away from her for so long? I'm doing my best. It will be over soon, okay?"

Elizabeth never liked her sister being a cop. From the moment Eames enrolled in the police academy, Elizabeth did all she could to talk her out of it. She worried about her sister constantly.

Elizabeth pulled Eames into a hug. Eames desperately needed it. She rested her head on her sister's shoulder and felt tears roll down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I'm being a jerk" Elizabeth said. "Do you need me to get you anything?"

Eames didn't respond.

"I guess if you have to be back there at all," Elizabeth said as she stroked her sister's hair and softened her tone, "I'm happy you're with Goren."

Eames pulled away and gave her a familiar raised eyebrow.

Elizabeth smiled, "What?"

"Most people think he's a liability."

"Do you think he's a liability?"

"Well, sometimes. Only when it concerns the advancement of my career," she said with a bit of cynicism.

Elizabeth looked a little shocked. "Do you think he's dangerous? Like he could put you in danger? Was this his fault?"

"No. No." Eames waved her hand, "I don't mean like that."

"Then what do you mean, Alex? Dad always said he was a little nuts—you know Dad has a running copy of Goren's file. He gets it updated once a year. At least he used to—when you were working together."

"What?"

"Yeah, probably not the entire file. I don't think Dad could get that—but don't tell him I told you. He'll kill me."

"I can't believe it. Dad's out of his mind."

"Yeah, we know that. But _do not_ tell him I told you."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner, Liz?"

"Alex, don't change the subject. Do you think Goren is a dangerous cop to be partnered with?"

"No. If he were, I wouldn't be working with him again."

"Promise?"

"Yes, of course. Now, David Kemp, he was a dangerous partner. Remember him?"

"Oh, yeah. He was hot."

"And he was also scum. You should have been worried about my safety when I was working with _him_."

"I was worried," Elizabeth said seriously. "I'm always worried about you. Every time you leave the house I'm worried." She ran her hands through her hair. "After what happened to Joe, I thought you would quit. I would've quit. It's a dangerous job."

"Yeah, it can be dangerous, but it's also a lot of paper work." She smiled, trying to reassure her sister and herself.

"It's not paper cuts that worry me, Alex. The point is, no matter how crazy people—and Dad—say Goren is, I feel like he must be a good partner. After what he did for us and for you after the incident—I figured he must be okay."

"When he did what?"

"You know, when you were in the hospital after—" Elizabeth paused.

"After I was kidnapped?" Eames finished for her.

"Right. When you were in the hospital, even though it was only for a few days, he took care of things."

Eames squinted, "I don't really remember much from the hospital."

"I know, but—did Mom ever tell you what he did?"

"No. No one tells me anything around here."

"The first night, after visiting hours, the nurses told us to leave, but Mom was so worked up that she refused to leave you. So Goren got a hold of the hospital director and made a deal: Mom could stay with you overnight if Goren took full responsibility for you and Mom. If anything happened, he would be liable. I'm sure the only reason they allowed this is because you're a cop, but it worked."

Eames sighed.

"Not only that, but he sat in that waiting room constantly. We came and went while you were there, but it seemed like he never left. When he wasn't with you, he just sat in the waiting room reading, doing paperwork and checking on you. He made sure you were being taken care of by the hospital staff." Elizabeth felt the pain of those few days well up inside of her. "I'm sure the staff was happy to release you—he was a thorn in their side."

Eames' jaw was slacked. "I had no idea. I don't remember any of that."

"You were pretty out of it."

"I guess so."

Elizabeth shrugged, "at one point, I went and talked to Goren in the waiting room—I felt sorry for him. It was like he didn't know exactly what to do with himself. When I sat down, he simply said, 'we caught the person who did this.' When I asked him who and why, he was very direct with me. I appreciated it."

Eames rubbed her forehead. She didn't like thinking about that time.

"What I remember most," Elizabeth continued, "was when we first got to the hospital he was sitting with you, but you were sleeping. He seemed vacant. Before he left the room, he apologized to us for what happened to you. He blamed himself."

"He still does," Eames said.

"He may be crazy," Elizabeth said, "but I got the impression that man would walk through hell for you."

"He's loyal." Eames shook her head and said softly, "he's not crazy. I really don't know why people think that." She sighed, "So, why didn't anyone tell me about this stuff?"

"We don't talk about that time much, especially around you. Sometimes I think it's harder for us to talk about it than it is for you." Elizabeth laughed nervously with tears rolling down her cheeks. "Anyway," Elizabeth went on, "he stayed in the waiting room every night—it was too hard on Mom to stay with you after that first night, so Goren offered to stay."

"I doubt it was necessary."

"It wasn't necessary, but Mom worried. We tried to tell her that you didn't need anyone to stay with you, but you're her little girl."

Eames smiled.

"You really don't remember this?"

"I remember parts of it, but I try not to."

"Yeah, I guess that's for the best—self-preservation. I don't think Goren slept in the waiting room, though. I suspect he slept in the unoccupied bed in your room."

Eames also had tears running down her cheeks. "He doesn't sleep."

"What?"

"He probably didn't sleep. He probably spent half the night reading and the other half thinking about what he read."

"Well, the point is, after that, I felt like if you had to be a cop at all, he was a good person for you to be partnered with." Elizabeth brushed the tears from her eyes, "and, the guy is huge, that helps with my peace of mind."

Eames laughed, "He's not as tough as he looks."

They sat quietly for a moment.

"Is Grace in the extra room?"

"No," Elizabeth said, "she got scared with the rain and thunder. I let her sleep in my bed."

"Oh," Eames said as she developed a pit in her stomach, "Jack doesn't mind?"

"He's not home. Remember, I told you he drove to D.C. with his brother for that convention thing."

"Right."

Eames pushed open the door to her sister's bedroom until the stream of light from the hall was enough for her to see Grace sleeping in the middle of the bed. Her heart ached. Her little girl was scared and she wasn't there to protect her.

"Alex, you can sleep on Jack's side of the bed."

"It's okay; I'll stay on the couch."

"You've been shot. It's the least I can do."

Eames smiled, "thanks."

She kicked off her shoes and crawled under the sheets next to Grace, and Elizabeth did the same on the other side of the bed. In the dark and quiet room, the sound of rain was heavy and constant. It was a soothing sound.

Eames relaxed for the first time in days. The warmth of the bed, the shallow breathing of her daughter and the protection of her sister was all she needed.

"Liz," Eames whispered, "I love you."

Elizabeth reached across Grace and held her sister's hand. "I love you, too."


	14. Orange Juice and Chocolate

**Back to Major Case**

**ORANGE JUICE AND CHOCOLATE**

Eames was vaguely aware of the throbbing in her arm as she forced her eyes open. The back of her neck was wet and her mouth was dry. She rolled onto her back and stared at the off-white ceiling until she was awake enough to fully appreciate the agony in her arm. She examined the bandage for a moment and pulled herself out of her sister's bed.

When she entered the living room, Grace jumped to her feet. "Mom."

"Hey, sweetheart."

The two embraced. Eames held on to her in a crouched position for a long moment. Tears filled her eyes. "Grace, I'm sorry I've been gone for a few days."

Grace shrugged. It was a habit she had developed. "What's that on your arm?" Grace asked in a whisper.

Eames wiped away the moisture in her eyes. "Well, when I was at work, there was a man who had a gun and—" Eames paused and looked to her sister who sat watching on the couch, "and he didn't know how be careful. You know how I always say that guns are dangerous and not toys."

Grace gave a shallow nod.

"Well this man thought it was a toy. The gun fired and I got hurt." Eames waited for a moment then said, "but I'm fine. I just have a big cut."

Grace eyed her mother for a moment but seemed okay.

"Why aren't you at school?" Eames asked.

Grace smiled, "There's no school today."

Eames looked to her sister.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, "it's Saturday, Alex."

Eames stood and looked down at Grace who nodded. Eames said, "Wow, I guess it must be Saturday." She looked at the clock of the wall and let out a sharp breath—it was one in the afternoon. "I haven't slept in this late in a long time." She was almost proud of herself.

Grace went back to her toys and Eames stood watching her for a moment. As she watched, her vision blurred with tears. Eames felt sick to her stomach—she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten, so she poured herself a bowl cereal and ate in a daze. She had a dull headache and felt like she could go right back to sleep.

Her nephew sat down across from her, "hi, Alex. How are you?"

Eames lifted her head and saw the bright-eyed boy gazing directly into her eyes. She smiled at him weakly. "I'm okay."

He lifted an eyebrow—a talent he spent months in front of a mirror perfecting. Liz often tells Eames, "he looks just like you when he does that."

"Really, I'm fine," Eames reassured the boy.

"Can I see it?" He asked.

"See what?"

"You know—" he motioned to his own arm, "Do you have a hole in your arm?"

"No. It's just a—" she looked down at the bandage and realized she never really looked at the wound, "I don't know, I don't have a hole in my arm, though."

"Please, Alex." He said with a smile. All of her other nieces and nephews called her Aunt Alex, but there was something different about the two of them. Somehow it never occurred to him to call her _Aunt_ and it never occurred to her that he should.

"Maybe when it heals a little more you can see it."

"Okay," he walked around the table and gave her a hug before leaving her to her cereal and throbbing arm.

"Alex," her sister said, "did he ask if he could see your gunshot wound?"

"Yeah, but I didn't show him."

"I wish you would've."

"Why?"

"He wants to be a cop when he grows up. Maybe seeing it will change his mind."

"He wants to be a cop? When did this happen?"

"I don't know. He hasn't mentioned it to you?"

"No." Eames said.

"Do me a favor and show him—I need you to scare him a little."

"He's twelve years old; he'll change his mind in a week. And what's so bad about him wanting to be a cop?"

"Would you really want him or Grace to be cops?"

Eames really hadn't thought about it before. Immediately she thought about Joe.

"See," Elizabeth said when Eames didn't respond, "You don't want them going into a dangerous profession."

"It's not that dangerous; I'd rather them be police officers than deep-sea fishermen—that's dangerous."

"Admit it. You wouldn't want either of them to be cops."

Eames looked at over at the kids in the living room and sighed, "I just want them to be happy."

* * *

Goren was at his desk by six in the morning, and for a while he was the only person in the MCS squad room. He read everything he could on Jonathan Waynesfield, or John Wayne.

He was a young and successful stockbroker with only unpaid parking tickets on his file. His phone records showed he had made calls to Romano, one of the dead stockbrokers.

Nichols exited the elevator and headed straight for Goren. "Goren," he said, "how is Alex doing?"

"Flesh wound," he said flatly. "She's shaken, but she'll be fine."

"She's tough," Nichols said as he pulled a chair next to Goren.

Goren continued to read. Nichols noticed Goren's jacket was wrinkled and his tie was stained with coffee—he was surprised by it.

"How are you holding up?" Nichols asked.

Goren didn't look up, "fine."

"Stevens and I were worried sick when we heard. When you see Alex, give her our best."

Goren looked up. Nichols looked tired, not his usual self. "You should tell her yourself. I'm sure she'd like that."

"I will," Nichols said. "So, want to compare notes?"

"Sure."

Nichols started: "Three stockbrokers were killed around midnight at the stock exchange. The young Erin Copland was killed around five the same morning not far from the exchange. Copland and one Stockbroker named Romano are old friends. Romano and John Wayne had been talking."

Nichols opened a file, "and Goren, you're going to love this, ballistics matched the gun that John Wayne used to shoot Alex with the gun that killed the brokers."

"Now we just need to find him."

"He could be anywhere right now. He has money to disappear and power to vanish."

"I don't think he's far. He has power here. According to his records, he has a team of lawyers at his disposal. He's the type who is used to getting what he wants." Goren stood and stretched. "You think he killed Copland, too?"

"I'm not sure," Nichols said. "It's seems like he would have used the gun. The plank of wood is messy, and John Wayne wears expensive suits."

Goren rubbed the back of his neck, "A gun is loud. He used the plank of wood to kill her without drawing immediate attention."

"He drew attention by shooting at cops," Nichols said. "I think he would have shot Copland. He's brazen."

Goren stuffed a hand in his coat pocket and ran his fingers along the edge of a folded paper. "Has anything turned up at John Wayne's apartment?"

"Which one?"

"He has more than one?"

"Yep. We spent all yesterday searching the one you were at. We thought it was odd that he had so little. I thought maybe he was a minimalist, but no, he has another apartment—with a lot more stuff."

"Anything there?"

"No, just started combing through it about two hours ago."

"I'd like to see it."

"That's where I'm going now. You can join me."

Goren pulled the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. He sighed, "Yeah, I'll catch up with you. I need to run an errand first."

Nichols nodded, "Sure, I'll see you there."

* * *

Eames and Grace searched their home for the prescription that had yet to be filled. Her arm was throbbing and she was a bit out of breath from the pain. She remembered putting the small piece of paper in her pocket before leaving the hospital, but now it was nowhere to be found.

Her doorbell rang and Eames looked out the front window; Goren's car was parked out front.

"Hi," she said as she opened the door.

"Hi." He said with a bit of a smile. "I found your prescription in my coat pocket, so I had it filled." He held up a small bag.

"Oh, your jacket, that's where I put it. Thank you. I'm so happy you found it; I've been looking everywhere." She stepped aside and let him in. "It's killing me."

"Well, you where shot."

As Goren entered, carrying several grocery bags, Grace cautiously stood slightly behind Eames.

Eames, despite her pain, let a smile spread across her face. "Grace, this is my friend Bobby. We've known each other for a very long time."

Goren smiled down at her and said in remarkably sweet tone, "Hello, Grace. It's nice to see you."

"Hi," she said softly.

Goren was taken back to the first time he saw Grace, when she was just an infant. Still, he could hardly believe that Eames had a child.

Eames opened the prescription bottle and looked at it carefully, "this better cut the pain." Grace followed closely behind Eames as she went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Goren followed as well.

Eames pointed to the grocery bags in Goren's arms after swallowing her medication. "What's all that?"

He set them down on the counter and began pulling things out, "supplies. I had some time to kill while your prescription was being filled, so I got some things I thought you might need." He smiled, "First aid: bandages and stuff, and cereal, milk, orange juice, chocolate and dinner."

She watched him put the food away in awe. "You did this for us?"

"I had to stop by anyway to give you the prescription."

"Thank you, Bobby. It's very kind of you." She looked down at Grace who was still evaluating Goren—and the chocolate. "Cereal, orange juice and chocolate—you've made the Eames girls very happy."

Goren let a shy smile escape from his lips, "that's the best thing I've heard in a long time."


	15. Frazzled

**Back to Major Case**

**FRAZZLED**

Goren put the food in the cupboards and looked at his watch. He knew he needed to get back to work, but he also felt a strong desire to stay where he was. Grace was coloring at the dining room table and Eames stood leaning against the counter and cradling her wounded arm.

She looked smaller, Goren thought. He could tell she was in a great deal of pain. With her pale skin and dark circles around her eyes, she looked deathly ill.

"You should sit down," Goren said softly.

She nodded and sat on the couch in the living room. Her steps where labored and she moved at a sluggish rate. He handed her a glass of water and sat in an armchair.

"Anything yet?" She asked.

"Ballistics matched John Wayne's gun to the ones used on the stockbrokers."

"But you haven't found him?"

He shook his head.

She slowly drank from her glass. "Do we know anything new about John Wayne?"

"No," Goren said. Hoping to steer Eames away from the case, Goren said, "You know, Grace is growing up fast."

"I know. She's going to be taller than me soon."

Goren smiled.

"Remember when you came over for Christmas that one year?" Eames asked. "Grace was just an infant."

"Of course I remember." It was on his mind lately.

Eames sighed. "I remember being so frazzled that day. I had just started working again, and I wasn't getting any sleep—A million things to do."

"I remember not wanting to even step inside, you didn't look terribly happy to have company."

"Ah," she waved her hand, "I wasn't that bad, was I?"

"Well, you were _frazzled_—to say the least," he said.

"I remember that all I wanted to do that day was take a shower and a nap," she let a smile take shape on the corners of her lips.

"You did; I was your babysitter for most of the day."

She let her eyes wander up to the ceiling: "No wonder you never came by again."

He mumbled, "that _was_ the last time we really saw each other." Goren leaned forward, "you were getting call after call from your station. Once, I asked if I should leave and you were insistent that I stay."

"And you stayed—"

"It was that or sit home alone."

She gently rubbed her aching arm.

He said, "It was a good day."

"It was a good day," she agreed, "—it was a little sad, too."

He nodded.

"I remember during one of my calls," she said, "I could hear Grace crying in the background. You magically got her to stop. I remember being so relieved. I was so tired."

"It was snowing that day," he said.

"Yes, it was." She recalled how beautiful the snow was. It fell lightly all day—it made everything seem softer.

After one of her calls on that snowy day, Eames recalled returning to the living room. She saw Goren framed in the bay window, holding Grace and staring intently at the lightly falling snow. She remembered how her heart grew heavy at the sight of it. The tenderness she felt for him at that moment was sudden and overwhelming—she still remembers this well—and though she had always been fond of him, it was a new feeling. It was hard to place, this feeling, but there was a tinge of sadness about it. This, she felt, would be the conclusion to their time together.

Eames remembered much of that day; in fact, she could almost remember every word spoken:

"Sorry about that," Eames remembers saying about her phone calls. She closed the distance to stand next to Goren and her newborn.

"It's fine." He looked down at Grace, "I hope it's okay, she was crying."

"Thank you." She watched him as he cradled the baby. Grace looked even smaller in his arms. Mindlessly, Eames placed her hand on his upper arm as she looked at a content Grace. "Do you want me to take her?" Eames asked only to be polite.

He shook his head, "I'm fine." Goren's voice was distant. Still holding Grace, he went and sat in a big armchair.

Eames followed him and curled up on the couch. They sat in silence for quite some time. The house was warm and the weather was enchanting. That feeling of tenderness swept over Eames again, but this time she realized it wasn't just tenderness toward Goren, it was toward the entire atmosphere. She liked the snow, she liked the warm house, and she liked not being alone. She felt like she was being taken care of. She felt him watching her. Their eyes met, and they gazed at each other for long enough to feel connected.

Goren broke the silence, "I'm happy to be here with you." His voice was just a whisper, but it rang through the air.

Eames felt tears fill her eyes. There was no reason, she thought, for this emotion, but there it was.

Goren put the baby's bottle on the coffee table and paced around the room delicately patting Grace's back. He was focused. His entire attention was on the task at hand, and he walked with a rhythmic quality to his step. Eames suddenly realized all the things she needed to get done before Christmas and the files she still needed to go over for work. The nice moment was ruined by the stresses of life.

"Bobby, it's very nice of you to do this; I appreciate it. I can always use the help."

"Sure."

"Then can I ask a favor of you?"

"Yes."

"It's a big favor."

"Okay."

"Can you just keep doing what you're doing," she paused, "and watch her while I take a shower?"

Goren laughed. It was a laugh she had never heard from him. It was so sudden and seemingly uncontrollable, that it seemed to have stunned even him.

"I know it may seem funny," Eames said, a bit embarrassed, "and I know it's bad manners for a hostess to leave her guest to take a shower," she chuckled, "but it's shockingly hard to shower while trying to take care of an infant alone. Unless I have someone to watch her, it can be impossible sometimes."

"It's fine," he smiled.

"Are you sure?"

He was still pacing the floor. "I have nothing else to do."

Slowly, she got up and walked down the hallway to her bedroom. After closing the door behind her, she placed her hands over her eyes and winced in embarrassment. She fought with herself for a few moments, knowing it was not very kind to invite Goren to her house only to have him babysit, but she really wanted to take a shower. Life had changed for her so dramatically, and this was one example. She smiled to herself and warmed the shower water.

"I really did make you babysit that day, didn't I?" Eames asked Goren.

"Yeah, it was fine."

"I had kind of forgotten about it—until now." She shifted her weight and a burst of pain resonated through her arm.

"It was a while ago," he said.

Eames looked back at Grace who colored in her coloring book at the dining room table. "Five years."

Eames' phone buzzed on the coffee table. She watched it for a second. It was out of her reach and the idea of leaning forward to pick up the phone was agonizing.

"Who is it?" Eames asked Goren.

He looked at the caller ID and said, "Your mother."

The voicemail picked up and Eames smiled, "I haven't told her about the hole in my arm."

The phone began to buzz again, "I have a feeling," Goren said, "she already knows."

"I don't want to talk to her."

"Why?"

"Because this stuff pains her more than it pains me."

He nodded, "but you really should talk to her."

She tried to stand, but she had difficulty gathering the strength. Goren helped her to her feet and handed her the phone.

"I'm going go back to work," he said to her, "do you need anything before I leave?"

She shook her head. "Just make sure you make time for dinner."

He tilted his head. "I'm fine; I'll eat."

"No, you need to make the dinner you brought." She pointed to the kitchen, "I really don't like cooking."

He nodded, "okay."

As Eames left the room to call her mother, Goren gathered his jacket and keys.

The door bell rang and Goren looked to Grace as if she was expecting someone, but she didn't seem to notice. He opened the door and Nichols was standing on the other side wearing a big smile and holding a bigger bouquet of flowers.

"Hey, Robert," Nichols said, "this was your errand?"

"Yes. I had to drop off her prescription."

"Good. Have I got news for you—"

"You arrested John Wayne?"

"No, but we are building a case against him. Can I come in?" He held up the flowers. "These are for Alex."

Goren stepped aside.

The moment Nichols walked through the door, Grace spotted him and smiled.

"Hey, kido," Nichols said. "Long time no see."

She skipped over to him and stopped directly in front of him, "hi Zack."

"Hi. I have something for you." He searched his pockets and pulled out a pack of bubblegum, "here, this is the good stuff. And I got this in my cereal." It was a small toy.

She smiled and said a soft, "thank you."

"No problem. Where's your mom?"

"On the phone."

Nichols looked to Goren.

Goren said, "she's talking with her mother."

"Oh, okay. Anyway, we're getting information back about John Wayne. He took about two hundred thousand dollars out of various accounts just days before Copland and the stockbrokers were killed."

Nichols walked to the kitchen and opened a cabinet door and grabbed a vase. He looked at it for a moment as Goren waited for him to continue. "Do you see a nice crystal vase around here?" Nichols said to Goren.

Goren scanned the room, "no."

"Grace?" Nichols asked, "do you know where that pretty vase is?"

Grace shrugged.

Nichols also shrugged, "so, we got the numbers from the bills—they were brand new. And wouldn't you know it, same numbers as the twenty thousand found on Copland."

"It was his money."

"Yep."

"But he took two hundred thousand out of the bank? Where's the rest?"

"I don't know, but we froze his account."

Nichols put the flowers in a vase of water and set them on the dining room table. He walked to the adjoining living room and sat on the couch. "twenty-four hours," Nichols said confidently, "and we'll have him."

Goren stood next to the couch: "motive?"

"That's what I was going to ask you?"

"I'll have to think about it." Goren said, but he already had an idea.

"Hey Grace?" Nichols said as he turned around to face her. "Did you and your mom paint the walls in this room?"

"Yeah." She said softly.

"Well, it looks good—a nice color. Did you pick out the color?"

She shrugged.

"Did your mom make you do all the work? Did you paint the entire thing all by yourself?"

Grace laughed, "no."

Nichols smiled.

"I made her paint everything," Eames said as she entered the room. "I didn't feed her until she was done."

Grace laughed again, "no."

"Yes."

Nichols stood and kissed Eames tenderly on the top of the head. "Look at you. How are you doing?"

"Fine." She looked to the flowers in the dining room, "are those for me?"

"Ah—well, I did bring them for Robert, but I'm sure he'll let you have them."

"Those are for Bobby?" she questioned with a smile.

"Well, yeah," he said. "The guy has had a rough time—his partner was shot."

Eames looked to Goren and said: "He's handling it well, though."

Goren shifted his weight slightly and lowered his head.

Nichols looked down at Eames and said softly and seriously, "are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine, Zack."

Goren watched their interaction closely. He felt a pit in his stomach as Nichols leaned down and whispered something in her ear—based on their unsmiling faces it was something more than Nichols' usual flirtation. Nichols' face was soft and warm; he looked directly into Eames' eyes and nodded slightly. Eames nodded back with the same shallow movement.

Goren looked away.

"Goren," Nichols said, "I'm going to John Wayne's place now."

"Yeah," Goren said, "I'll go with you."


	16. She Deserves To Know

**Back to Major Case**

**SHE DESERVES TO KNOW**

There were teams of people combing through John Wayne's apartment. This was something Goren had always liked—invading another's personal space—but today he was less interested. He didn't think there would be anything in this apartment to forward their case. Nichols disappeared into the apartment and Goren slowly walked to the center of the living room.

"Detective Goren."

He turned around; it was Stevens.

"How are you? How is Eames?"

"Good."

She nodded, "tell her we're all thinking of her."

"I will," Goren said. "She knows."

Stevens looked around, "is Zack here yet?"

"Yeah, he was here a second ago. He disappeared."

"He has a tendency to do that," she said with a sigh. "I don't know if you've ever had an eccentric partner, but sometimes it can be a pain in the ass." She didn't say it angrily—it was just a fact.

Goren shook his head. In these last few days he's watched Stevens do all of the legwork while Nichols floated around, coming and going as he pleased.

"How long have you been here?" Goren asked.

She looked at her watch, "a very long time." She stood silent for a moment, "this place is very clean. I was expecting to find something. I was hoping for some bloody clothes, but no luck." She showed him a photo of the Wall Street crime scene. "The brokers were killed in a very small room, he would have had significant blood spatter all over the front of his body."

"John Wayne dumped his bloody clothes," Goren said.

"There is one thing," Stevens said, "in the other room, we have John Wayne's girlfriend. She lives here with him."

Goren nodded, "does she know where her boyfriend is?"

"She has a lawyer and she's not talking. I was thinking you might want to try?"

Goren smiled.

He walked into the dining room and sat down across from John Wayne's girlfriend. She watched him set down his notebook, open it, take out a pencil, find a blank page, and finally look up at her.

"Hello," he said. "Do you live here?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'm Detective Goren."

"I'm not talking to anyone."

"Because your lawyer told you not to? Good. You should listen to your lawyer. Do you know why we're here?"

Her lawyer spoke: "You're here because of a misunderstanding concerning Mr. Waynesfield."

Goren muttered, "a misunderstanding," as he wrote that on his paper. "Not exactly. We saw your boyfriend yesterday—at his other apartment. He was acting rather guilty."

"You must be thinking of someone else," she said.

Goren placed a photo of John Wayne on the table, "this is the guy we talked to."

She looked at it momentarily.

"He shot a police officer as we were leaving his other apartment. He's defiantly guilty of that."

Detective Sam Hart walked up to the table and handed Goren a photo and whispered something in his ear. Goren looked at it for a moment and slipped it across the table to John Wayne's girlfriend. "When we were at his other apartment we found a gun that was registered to you."

She looked at it, "that's not mine. I don't own a gun, and—"

Her lawyer put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from continuing.

"It's in your name and it was found in your closet."

She said, "that can't be true. I didn't know he had a second apartment."

"This was found with woman's clothing. About your size."

She took a deep breath, "I should have known."

"Where is he?" Goren asked.

"I don't know," she said in a huff, "find the woman living at his other apartment and ask her."

"Give us a place to start."

"Did you check the drycleaners his parents own—in Brooklyn? He's always running there when he gets in one of his moods."

Goren left the room and Stevens and Sam Hart followed. Goren turned to Stevens, "There's really a gun in her name?"

"Yeah," she said, "But it was Sam's idea to make her think there was another woman living with John Wayne."

Sam smiled, "I doctored a photo. There was no evidence of a woman living there."

"Ah," Goren said, "technology—"

"Off to Brooklyn?" Sam asked.

"I guess so," Goren said.

They headed to the Brooklyn drycleaners Wayne's parents owned. In the window of the cleaners the _closed_ sign hung with a small note under it that read: "family emergency, we'll be back soon."

Goren knocked on the door, "family emergency is right."

Sam Hart walked around the back of the building through a narrow alleyway. When he returned, he said to Goren, "Everything's locked up; no sign that anyone's here. Maybe we can get a home address." Sam pulled out his phone and called his partner.

Goren leaned against the building and closed his eyes. He was tired and stressed. More than anything, he hated spinning his wheels like this. Uncharacteristically, he didn't know what his next move should be; he didn't know how to take charge of this investigation. But he had to do something.

"Sam," Goren said, "let's go to Kingsborough College."

"What's there?"

"Well, Copland went to school there. John Wayne had a Kingsborough College sweatshirt in his apartment. I think we should go check the place out."

Sam drove and Goren used the time to think. He wondered if they—the stockbrokers, Erin Copland and John Wayne—all went to school together.

Goren's phone buzzed: it was Eames. "Hey."

"Hi," she said, "do you have a minute?"

"Sure, you okay?"

"Yeah, I was just wondering if you kept in touch with Grace Weaver."

Goren thought for a moment, "who? I don't know—"

"It's not a big deal. I've just been thinking about her lately."

"Did we work with her?" He asked.

"She was your mom's friend. I met her at the funeral."

"Oh," Goren sighed, "yeah, Grace Weaver. I haven't spoken with her since then."

"I figured, it's okay, I was just wondering." Her voice was unsure and strained. She asked, "I'll see you later?"

"See you later." He hung up as a wave of worry swept through him.

They pulled into a parking lot at the college and Sam said softly, "Detective Goren, my wife owns a bakery, and she wanted to make something for Alex—a get-well gift. What do you think she'd like?"

"Ah, I don't know—"

Sam said, "like something sweet, something my wife could bake."

"A cake?"

"Yeah. I wasn't sure: a cake, a pie, cookies, brownies, fudge—"

"Fudge." Goren nodded, "she'll like that. I think she likes brownies, too."

"Good, good—anything else?"

"Her daughter probably likes cupcakes." Goren shrugged, "kids like cupcakes?"

Sam smiled, "yes, kids love cupcakes. You're right. I'll call my wife when we're done here. She'll probably make a nice goodie basket—maybe a Thanksgiving theme."

Goren nodded, "sounds great."

At the Kingsborough admissions office, Goren and Sam obtained the transcripts for Erin Copland, John Wayne and one stockbroker, Romano.

Before they could even begin looking at the paper work, the captain called Sam.

"We need to go back to One P.P." Sam relayed to Goren.

"Now?"

"Yeah, I don't know why."

The captain shut the office door behind Goren and sat at the corner of the desk. "I talked to Eames earlier today—she seems to be doing well…considering."

Goren nodded.

"Until we catch John Wayne, I need you keep a low profile on this case."

"Why?" Goren asked, but he knew.

"He shot your partner; you're personally invested in this case."

"She's a temporary partner."

"You've known her for well over a decade, Goren."

He tipped his head.

"Goren," the captain said, "you know that a decent lawyer can manipulate a good case by saying you had a vendetta against John Wayne—or something that could derail the case. I would hate for you to lose your temper if confronted with Wayne before he's in this building."

"I can play by the rules. It'll be fine."

"No," the captain said, "I only know you by reputation. It doesn't leave me with a lot of confidence in your abilities to follow the rules."

He couldn't argue with that.

"Goren, keep working. I just don't want you to make the arrest or even interview anyone too close to John Wayne without—"

"I can't talk to anyone?"

"You can interview anyone you want as long as it is in this building where they can have a lawyer present."

He made an overly exaggerated sigh, though he was not at all surprised by the stipulations.

Goren slowly walked back to his desk and sat in his chair. It was not his desk anymore. It had been occupied by someone else for years. His things were not in the draws, his books were not at hand, and partner was not across from him.

"Goren," Sam said, "So, it looks like Copland, John Wayne, and Romano all had classes together."

"We're they good students?"

"Copland and Romano each had close to 4.0s, John Wayne had straight Cs."

"And John Wayne is the one who becomes a millionaire?"

"Yep, I would've been a little mad if I had been the A student who ended up poor," Sam said.

"Maybe they _were_ mad. Maybe they somehow felt entitled to some of that money."

"Copland and Romano were blackmailing John Wayne?"

"Yep," Goren said. "The money that was with Copland—he left it with her for a reason. He felt guilty for something."

"For murdering her, perhaps?"

"I don't think he intended to kill her. He took the money to her and something went wrong." Goren rubbed his eyes, "How did Wayne make his money?"

Sam shuffled through some papers and said, "He made a small internet service that created custom activities for parents to get their kids involved in things that would make children more prone to excelling in certain highly completive fields as adults: music, medicine, law, etc. He sold it and made his first million. Then he hit Wall Street."

Goren instantly knew what had happen and why. "He's just getting things in order."

Before Sam could ask Goren what he meant, Nichols and Stevens swept into the squad room with long, matching strides. Despite the fact that it was about six at night and they had been working in the field all day, they still were bright-eyed and in good spirits.

As they told Goren and Sam of their finds and the fact that they have cops waiting at Wayne's parent's residence, they seemed confident and relaxed. They must have hit a familiar place in the investigation, Goren thought. The way a good partnership works. They knew from years of experience together that everything was falling into place. Goren did not feel the same way.

He didn't have the safety of his partner anymore—not the way Nichols and Stevens had each other. He hoped that over time they would not make too many mistakes and let each other down; he hoped Nichols would not take advantage of the fact that Stevens understood him; he hoped they would not miss each other when things fall apart. Nichols and Stevens worked so well together that it would be a tragedy for that to end.

"Drinks?" Nichols asked.

Everyone kind of shrugged.

"Stevie?" he nudged her.

She smiled, "Sure."

"Bobby, Sammy, let's go." Nichols said.

Sam grabbed his jacket. Goren stayed in his seat, "I don't think so."

As Sam and Stevens headed for the elevator, Nichols said to Goren, "you should get out of here. This is a tough case for you."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. No one expects you to be. Your partner was shot. I'd be a mess if I were in your shoes." He lowered his eyes, "well, I am a mess over Alex—but I don't think I can show it."

Nichols walked to the elevator. Goren grabbed his coat and followed.

With Stevens, Sam and Nichols, Goren was strangely content. Calm, perhaps. They were friendly, witty and easy to be around. Goren thought back to that short period of time when they all worked together—he didn't really remember them. He knew they were around, but had no real recollection of any of them.

Goren explained his new job at Major Case, "The Captain told me to keep a low profile on this case—_because I'm personally invested_."

"We all are," Sam said.

They all nodded. Suddenly Goren was struck with real benevolence for all of them. They genuinely cared about Eames. For that fact alone, Goren cared about them as well.

"So, Detective Goren," Sam asked, "you coming back to Major Case for good?"

Goren shrugged, "I don't know."

"Well, do you want to?"

"Sure. I'd like to stay."

Stevens asked, "what about Eames? Do you think she'd come back?"

Nichols jumped in, "I sure hope so."

Stevens looked to Goren and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know what she wants," Goren said. "But I don't think so—she likes where she's at."

"How long have you been with Organized Crime?" Stevens asked Goren.

"A few years. I don't particularly like it, but I have a badge."

"Hopefully things work out here," she said. "We're understaffed."

"Maybe," Goren said.

Sam stood, "well, I need to get home. Detective Goren, don't tell Alex about the brownies. I want it to be a surprise."

"Okay."

Stevens stood as well, "yeah, I'm leaving, too." She patted Nichols on the shoulder, "what time are you getting in tomorrow?"

"As early as I can, after I golf."

"I'll spend the early part of the day making calls to John Wayne's friends."

Goren was amazed that while working a case together, Nichols and Stevens didn't seem to spend much time together. They were always off doing separate work. That was their method. It seemed to serve them well. She did all of the practical work and he wandered around, following his theories.

Stevens and Sam left Nichols and Goren sitting with their drinks.

"It's nice of Sam's wife to make Alex some sweets," Nichols said after he ordered another drink.

"Yeah."

Nichols smiled, "she has a sweet tooth. One time, for Halloween, she bought an absurd amount of candy. She said it was for the trick-or-treaters, but I knew better. I gave every kid who came to the door a handful of candy and still we had leftovers. She took most of it to work and stuffed in her desk."

The smile on Nichols' face was wide and kind.

"She's something else, isn't she?" Goren said.

Nichols searched Goren's face for jealously, mockery, irony or any purpose for that comment. He didn't see any of it—he saw honesty. "Yes, she is something else," Nichols said.

They both sat without talking as they sipped their drinks.

"You should tell her," Goren said almost timidly. "She deserves to know."

Nichols could feel the alcohol go to his head. "What?"

"She should know that she's something else—that _you_ think she's something else."

"Oh." Nichols watched Goren avoid eye contact. "I've told her," Nichols said. "She knows I would change my life for her—or something like that. The only problem is it's only good in theory, not in practice."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Nichols narrowed his eyes mischievously, "practice makes perfect. I like to practice."

Goren waited for Nichols to continue. He took his time.

Nichols took a drink. "After I worked with Alex on a case or two, I realized what a wonderful cop she is and what a wonderful woman she is. She has this quality to her, I can't articulate it, but she has _it_. I was fascinated by her and then, poof, she was gone—gone after the entire thing with Danny." Nichols stopped and looked around as if he completed the story.

"And?" Goren asked, provoking him to go on.

"And I missed her. I didn't have a chance to get to know her very well, but I still missed her. I thought I envied you, Robert, because you got to spend _years_ with her. You got to be by her side, listen to her talk, get to know her, listen to her rant. But then, I realized that I should not envy you because you got to be so close to her and were never able to do anything about it."

Goren didn't fully understand. "Eames and I never had that kind of relationship. We didn't want to_ do anything about it_."

Nichols eyed Goren for a moment, "oh—never mind then."

Goren rubbed the side of his glass with his thumb. "I did miss her, though," he whispered.

Nichols watched the hard lines on Goren's face melt away and said, "Who wouldn't?"

"You two," Goren looked for the right words, "had a relationship?"

Nichols sighed, "Well, I wouldn't put it that way. One of my band mates had a studio down the street from her station, so every time I was in the area, I stopped in—I still do. One day I saw her outside the station house and decided I needed to show up for rehearsal more often." Nichols raised an eyebrow and looked into his drink. "For a while, I tried to see her as much as possible. I liked to flirt with her and take her flowers, and talk—we go out to lunch fairly regularly." He drank the last of his glass and as a smile crossed his face. "Every now and again—not as much as before—but still, when she allows it, she lets me take her to dinner and stay the night." Nichols was suddenly self-conscious, something that rarely occurred. He knew Eames would not appreciate this admission. He tried to see if Goren's expression changed. It did not.

"But," Nichols continued, "that stuff was mostly a few years ago. Then she got a boyfriend, so I stayed away. Nice guy, high school English teacher. I met him a few times. But he moved to Kentucky or Nevada or something like that. So now it's mostly lunch and flowers." Nichols felt like he couldn't stop talking. He hoped that Goren would not tell Eames about this conversation.

Goren was quiet for a moment. Without anger, jealously or any real emotion in his voice, he asked calmly, "so you two just have sex?"

Nichols' head was foggy, "when you say it like that it sounds bad."

Goren nodded.

"When it all started—"

"Zack, you don't need to explain anything to me. It's none of my business."

"I know you care about her, Robert."

Goren nodded again.

"She needed a little brake from work and motherhood, so I was the man for the job." Nichols pointed to himself, "I love women. I love being around them. Much better company than men," Nichols paused, "though I'm having a nice time with you, Robert."

Goren was looking into his glass.

"We did have a _short_ relationship, but now—"

"—you continue to sleep with her."

"Yes, though not recently." Nichols rubbed his chin, "It's not a bad arrangement. And like I said, when she dated that teacher, I stayed away. We respect each other; we care about each other. We're friends."

Goren held up a hand, "you shouldn't be telling me this."

"I know, but you're her friend." He paused, "she missed you."

Goren narrowed his eyes, "is that right?"

"Yeah, she used to talk about you all the time."

"Great."

"She worried about you."

"I don't think you know what you're talking about, Zack."

"She did. She always wondered if you found your nephew—if he really is your nephew—do you know for sure?"

Goren rubbed the back of his head. "No, I don't know for sure."

Nichols was having a little trouble focusing on Goren.

Goren stood and slowly put money on the table. "If she really worried about me, then don't you think she would have connected with me? Something?"

Nichols sat motionless. "I think she always wished you were her company."

"No—" Goren said evenly, "she's happy when she's with you. She smiles more." Goren paused, "you smile more when you're with her."

Nichols took a deep breath.

Goren nodded and said truthfully, "I'm happy she's had you around."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Tell me when you catch John Wayne," Goren said before he left.


	17. Loyalty

**Back to Major Case**

**LOYALTY**

Despite the throbbing gunshot wound in her arm, Eames was surprisingly content—though, she thought it could be the pain medication. She had spent the day at home with her daughter and, happily, no one expected anything of her. All day long little gifts arrived from people at her station, cops she had not seen in years, and various official condolences from the NYPD. Unfortunately, it felt much the same as it did after she had been kidnapped and after Joe died.

Her parents stopped by; they alternately comforted her and nagged her over the whole ordeal, but in the end, Eames was happy to have them around. As the night pressed on, her parents went home and Grace went to bed. She was alone. In many ways it was a relief for Eames to be left with her thoughts.

Her father had made a fire before he left, and it still burned brightly. The heat and light that emanated from it put her at ease. It warmed the room and kept Eames comfortable. She wore only running shorts and a tank top (and a sling for her arm) as if it were the dead of summer, not days before thanksgiving. In the living room she listened to the light rain.

She looked at the clock and figured Goren was pulling an all-nighter. She thought about calling but decided against it.

Goren—he was suddenly in her world again, at the edge of her thoughts and a catalyst for her emotions. There was so much to remember about their past, and, she feared, so much to forget. There was a hopeful feeling to their new endeavor; though it had yet to be great start, it was a start. A new start.

Maybe that time apart was all they needed.

The doorbell rang and Eames knew exactly who it was. With a bit of effort, she pressed her bare feet onto the cool wood floor and walked slowly to the door.

"Hey," she said with a smile that would have been hard to hide. "I was hoping you'd stop by." She stepped out of the way as he slowly passed through the doorway.

He looked completely different than he did when she saw him earlier that day.

"Do you want something to eat?" She asked. Eames figured he had not eaten.

Goren shook his head as he stood with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. His hair was wet and his coat dripped from the rain. "No, I'm not hungry."

"Okay, well, take off your coat; you're getting my floor wet." She tugged his sleeve a little.

He did as he was told.

He was sullen and she knew something was on his mind. This disappointed her; she had been in a decent mood. "Everything okay?" she asked.

"Ah," Goren sighed and said flatly, "You asked about Grace Weaver, so I called a friend in the U.K. to look her up. She died about a year ago. Cancer."

"Oh," Eames took a breath, "I didn't really know her at all, but she had a profound impact on me." The news was not heart wrenching, but it made Eames feel a little disoriented and sad.

"Did you name Grace after her?"

"Yes." Eames sighed.

He nodded. "I had assumed you named her after your aunt."

She shook her head. "When I had to decide if I was going to adopt her, all that went through my head was Grace Weaver's 90-year-old question."

Goren tipped his head.

"Grace Weaver told me about this rule she made up for herself. Anytime she had a decision to make, she would ask herself if it was something she would regret not doing once she was 90 years old. That's the reason why I had the courage to adopt Grace. Now, I try to apply the 90-year-old question to my life as much as possible."

"Really?" Goren sighed with a clinched jaw.

She could see his entire body take on that all too familiar defensive stance. "Yes, something wrong with that?" She asked.

He kept his eyes on the ground and shifted his weight a few times before saying, "so, I guess our friendship wasn't something you'd regret losing once you look back on your life."

She could hear the pinch of anger in his voice. Everything seemed fine when they were last together. "What are you talking about?"

Still looking at the ground and hands shoved in his pockets, he asked, "Losing contact with me didn't matter to you? At 90 years old, you wouldn't regret losing what we had?"

She stayed silent. She was lost.

He didn't enjoy her silence, it made him nervous. "I know things weren't always great between us," he continued, "but I always thought we were okay."

"You're upset because we didn't keep in touch?" Eames asked as she felt her heart sink.

"Yes."

"It's my fault?" She pointed to herself. "What about you, Goren? For five years you were unable to call or write? Don't blame this on me." He voice got louder, "If our friendship meant so much to you, why didn't you do anything about it? Instead, you come here to yell at me after all this time?"

"I didn't contact you because it was your chance to be free of me. All of my problems had an impact of you—you'd be a captain right now—"

"Not that again."

He shrugged and took a step toward her, "I didn't want to impose myself on you. I figured if you wanted me in your life, you'd call."

"God," she said as she put a hand on her face, "you make everything about you." She couldn't believe he was doing this now. "You know what, Goren? I thought that if you really cared about me or our friendship, you would have made an effort for _me_. I have always had to do all the work in our relationship. I have always been the one to forgive and to forget. It's exhausting."

"But you had enough time for Zack?"

"What? He has nothing to do with this."

"Well, you did have enough time to share with him things I told you in confidence."

She took a deep breath. Her heart was racing.

He continued as he paced in a small area, "you are the only person I ever told about the fact that I _really_ don't think Donny is Frank's son or my nephew. There are hundreds of things about me only you know; I can only imagine what you tell people."

"Look, I don't remember talking to Zack about that, but if I did, I'm sorry. Believe me, I don't share your secrets with him or anyone."

He shook his head and wiped his eyes, "I would never do something like that to you."

"Oh," she huffed, "let's not get into a battle of loyalty, Goren. I have been nothing but loyal to you."

"Yeah, I've messed up, but those times when I was less than loyal," he said, "it was only to protect you. You may not have seen it that way, but I have always put you first. I have always been loyal."

"Really? You told Declan that your biological father is Brady and I had to find out after you threw a fit in Ross' office. How do you think that made me feel? You confided in Declan and not me? His daughter tried to kill me and she's a product of him—of his psychotic world. Yet, you still went back to him. It doesn't seem very loyal to continue to devote yourself to a guy whose daughter put me through that ordeal."

He held up his hands, "look, you don't have to remind me of that mistake. But, this is just an example of how you don't get it: I didn't tell you because I didn't want to involve you with my problems, I wanted to protect you."

"You've got to make up your mind, Goren. You can't keep me at arm's length and still expect me to be around when it's convenient for you." Tears filled her eyes, "I wish we had stayed connected for these last few years, but I can't do everything. It was heartbreaking for me to finally realize that I was the only one who cared enough to put any effort into us."

He kept his eyes lowered and his breathing was heavy.

She clinched her arm, it was suddenly throbbing.

They both knew that they had a profound impact on each other. It's always been this way—bad and good. When one was having a bad day, so was the other. When one was happy, they both were happy. And now they both were hurt and frustrated with each other and themselves. They both messed up, and they both were paying the price.

This was the effect they had on each other.

They heard tentative footsteps approaching. Grace walked to Eames and seemed to assess the situation. She whispered, "I can't sleep."

"Okay, sweetheart," Eames said softly, trying to disguise her tearful voice.

Goren and Eames stood and stared at each other for a moment. Eames felt sick and sad. The tears in her eyes blurred her vision, but she could see well enough to make out his hardened face and squinted eyes.

They were both emotionally exhausted.

"I'm going to go." The words stuck in his throat.

"I think you should," she said in tearful whisper. She took Grace by the hand and looked back to Goren who had not moved. "In the top draw of the desk," she whispered, "I have something of yours. You should take it."

Eames and Grace disappeared down the hall and into a bedroom.

It had been a long time since Goren had felt this bad. He slowly walked to the desk and opened the draw. He let out a long, deep sigh—it wasn't what he had expected. He was overwhelmed, and despite his efforts to maintain composure, tears filled his eyes.


	18. Christmas, Five Years Ago

**Back to Major Case**

**CHRISTMAS, FIVE YEARS AGO**

Goren still paced with the infant in his arms. He couldn't remember being around a person this young and new before, a person at the beginning of life. This child had every opportunity in the world. She wasn't ruined yet. Goren thought about how old he would be when she turns ten, twenty, and thirty. He wondered if she'll be a good student, if she'll play sports, be in a marching band, go to college, become a cop, or get married.

Grace began to cry and Goren tensed; he didn't know what to do. He whispered repeatedly, "it's okay, it's okay." This did nothing to stop her from crying. He continued to walk around the house. His path took him all through the house and up and down the hallway. He could hear the shower running in Eames' bathroom.

"Okay, Grace, okay," he whispered. He adjusted her in his arms so she could see his face. She was a beautiful child; he assumed all infants were beautiful, but she seemed special. "You're very lucky, Grace," he said almost to himself. "Not everyone gets a really great mom. You have a truly magnificent one."

He walked until he realized his arms ached. And they ached badly. Grace was no longer crying, so he put her in the basinet. The house was quiet and warm and the snow still fell. He knew he would have to leave before the streets got bad.

He found his coat hanging on the coat rack near the front door. In the inside pocket he pulled out the Polaroid he had taken of himself and Eames years ago—many years ago.

The picture caught her midsentence, not smiling, but pleasant—her usual expression. He wasn't smiling either, but it wasn't a frown. They were both young and the most perfect they had ever been. The more Goren looked at it, the more it felt like he was holding a photo of different people. People who were content—happy, even.

It was the only photograph he had of them together. It was the only photograph he had ever had of her. It had been in a shoebox where he kept all his photos—most were old ones of himself, his brother, and his mother. He would open the box from time to time and look over all the pictures until nostalgia became too great.

After running a finger along the edges one last time, Goren looked round her living room for a place to leave it. He walked to her bookshelf and looked over her collection. She was an avid reader; it was one of their great similarities. Their taste in books, though, was probably the thing they disagreed on most—and that was saying a lot.

There were many more books on her shelf since the last time he had been to her house. He swept his hand along the spines slowly, reading all the titles. He came to a paperback: _The Prophet_ by Kahlil Gibran. Vaguely, he remembered it.

After plucking it from the shelf, he flipped through the pages and saw his own handwriting in the margins. Slowly, it came to him. It was directly after she had given birth to her nephew. He read _The Prophet_ while keeping her company. He remembered how she seemed vacant and empty in those weeks that followed. It was shocking because just before she had given birth she was the happiest and most beautiful he had ever seen her.

He would stop by just about every night. She was quiet and inattentive. They would eat together, he would complain about Bishop—she would reprimand him for that—and then he would sit for long hours on her couch reading while she cleaned and kept herself busy.

He read _The Prophet_—a collection of poetic essays discussing the human condition—it seemed appropriate. It was her book. In those nights reading, he wasn't completely sure he understood her discontent. But one night, she fell asleep on the couch next to him. He watched her sleep for some time. It was so quiet and empty in her house, and then he understood: for months she had lived with a child she loved, protected, and undoubtedly dreamed of. And in a few short hours, the child was gone—just as she knew he would be—but she was left with the healing body, the flattening stomach, and the engorged breasts; all little reminders of something missing.

It wasn't easy.

Goren ran his fingers over the pages of the book again, and looked back to Grace, still content. He was happy for Eames. She never talked about it, but he knew she longed for a child of her own.

As he heard the shower water turn off, he opened the book to the chapter "Friendship" and put the photograph inside. He slipped the book back onto the shelf knowing she would find it someday.

Goren heard the door to her bedroom open and her footsteps get closer. He could smell lavender lightly fill the air. He slowly turned around and saw her. Her hair was damp, she wore no makeup, and she was in the same jeans she had on before.

He almost felt weakened by her.

"Thank you for watching her," she said softly.

He nodded slightly.

She picked Grace up and held her with more love than he could imagine.

"So, is she going to get a little brother or sister?" he asked.

It took a minute for her to process the question, "what?" she laughed.

"I was just wondering if you've thought about it."

"I'm still trying to figure out how to take care of this one. Besides, where would I get another kid?"

"You could adopt again."

"Maybe."

"Or, you could have one the old fashioned way."

"I'm too old for that."

"No, you're not too old."

"Yes, I am."

Goren did the math for a moment, "yeah, I guess you kind of are."

She was not offended.

"Did you and Joe ever think about having kids?"

Eames smiled, "yes, it just didn't happen. What about you, Mr. Independent? Wife? Kids? Golden Retriever?"

He tilted his head slightly. "I don't know. I guess when I was younger I just thought it would happen. I figured it was something that would find me, kind of like it was inevitable: get married, have kids, be happy." There was deep unhappiness in his voice. "But it just didn't happen."

"But did you want that life—_do_ you want that life?"

He thought about her question. "I don't know."

She knew he was lying. She always knew when he was lying, even when she didn't want to believe it.

"But I guess things worked out for the best. I'd make a horrible father."

"No, Bobby, I don't think that's true."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I guess we'll never know."

"Bobby—"

He held up a hand. "It's okay."

She nodded.

"I should go." He pointed to the window. "The snow."

"Okay."

He took his coffee cup to the kitchen and gathered his keys and wallet off the counter. Eames stood next to him. They didn't know what to do—how to say goodbye.

He sat down on a barstool next to where Eames was standing. With him sitting and her standing, they were at eye level.

"I was a different man before everything happened," he said almost apologetically. "I was different before I even got to Major Case. I wish you had known me then." He smiled, "I was fun and kind of sociable; you would've liked me."

She took a deep breath and nodded. "I was different, too."

They both looked out the window to the thick snow that blanketed everything. Between them there was a deep feeling of the end. The entire day felt like a last goodbye, one last chance to clear the air and say what needed to be said in order to find closure—to debrief. With the increasing speed of the falling snow, their goodbye needed to be now. He needed to get home before his Mustang was stuck in front of her home. They both knew this, but still they tried to prolong the inevitable.

Eames stepped closer to Goren and caught his gaze. "You're going to be fine, Bobby. You, more than anyone I know, have the ability to recover and be okay." She gently, if not awkwardly, placed her hands on his shoulders. "Just don't think about things too much. You're too hard on yourself. You need to stop."

He took a deep breath, "okay."

"Alex," he made sure their eyes were locked together, "I love you more than I love anyone."

She smiled, "I don't know whether to be flattered or feel sorry for you."

He chuckled, "neither."

Eames moved her hands from his shoulders to his cheeks, "thank you." She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

It took only a few minutes for him to put on his coat and leave. There was nothing more to their goodbye than simply saying the word, but each was sure that that was the last time they would ever see each other.

Little did they know, five years later, Nichols would call them back to Major Case.


	19. Loyalty, Continued

**Back to Major Case**

**LOYALTY, CONTINUED**

Eames shut the door to Grace's room and tears filled her eyes. She felt physically sick. She slowly walked to the living room with the intention of turning off the lights and going to bed, but he was still there.

He sat in the armchair leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. She could see his chest expanding and contracting with uneven intervals.

Suddenly, she was filled with anger. "I thought you were leaving."

He raised his head. His face was red and his eyes were bloodshot. It was startling.

He pointed to the framed photograph on the coffee table. "I gave that to you. It was a gift. I'm not taking it back."

"Fine. Just leave."

He stood.

"Did you even look on the back?" She asked.

He paused—then hesitantly picked up the frame and turned it over. There was a small note card stuck in the corner of the small frame. He pulled it out and opened it. It read:

"_For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unclaimed. When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence." _

Eames sat on the couch and let the tears roll down her face. She was beyond trying to hide it.

Goren stood completely still and silent as he read it over and over. It was in her flowing handwriting and written in blue ink—she always wrote in blue ink. He took a deep breath and blinked away the moisture in his eyes.

He turned the picture frame back around and stared at the Polaroid inside. He stared at them. So much time had passed since then. They were completely different now.

He finally understood; she was not giving back his property, she was giving him a gift—the framed photo, the note. Goren read it again and sat back down. He read it again and again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I had no right to come here and pick a fight with you just because I'm jealous."

She didn't say anything. She just continued to cry.

It scared him. A tear or two slowly fell over his cheeks. The combination of alcohol he had earlier with Nichols, the stress of the case, Eames being shot, and their fight was more than he could handle.

She was overwhelmed, too. Together, they were both a mess.

"Eames—"

"Just stop talking."

"I can't leave with you like this."

"Stop—as much as you might want to believe that this is all because of you, it's not."

"If it's not me, than what is it? I'll fix this."

"You can't fix everything."

"Please, Eames."

"Grace asked if I was going to die." She could barely get the words out.

Goren took a deep breath. She was right, he couldn't fix this.

"One bullet," she said as best as she could, "one bullet killed Joe and it could've killed me."

"I know," he said softly, "but it didn't."

"It scares me."

She didn't have to say it for him to understand. "I know it scares you," he said, "and it should scare you—it would scare anyone. It scared the hell out of me."

She took a deep breath. "A few inches and it could've killed me."

"You can't think about _what if_, Alex."

She rubbed her eyes. "It's hard not to. I'm all she's got."

He nodded.

"Having a child has made my life better, but it also has made me more terrified of the world." She said, "It makes me wonder _what if_."

Goren sighed, "I've spent the better part of the last five years thinking about all of the _what ifs_ in my life. It doesn't do me any good, but I still do it." He took a deep breath and said, "Hell, I even came here to yell at you about _what if_."

Her tears subsided but her face was still red. "What if…" she said.

"What if…" he repeated.

She wiped the moisture from her eyes.

He moved from the armchair and knelt in front of her as she sat slumped on the sofa. In her running shorts and tank top, Goren wondered why she wasn't freezing. He gently took the hand of her uninjured arm. "I messed up, I know. Things were going okay, but all I could think about was the fact that we let five years go by." He squeezed her hand slightly, "Alex, I want to make up for the time we've lost."

She took a deep breath, "Bobby, I don't have the strength right now to think about that—the years we spent apart—it makes me sad."

"Me, too." Still on his knees, he pressed the palm of her hand to his tear-moist cheek. He felt selfish for doing it, for forcing her to comfort him with her touch, but he did it anyway.

She gently stroked his cheek with her thumb. Her gaze penetrated him and left him hopeful that this pain between them would pass. But then her eyes wandered and she pulled her hand away.

He felt panic, "Eames, don't do this."

"Why did you come here? Just to tell me how I messed up and didn't save our friendship?"

"No—"

"I could have died, Goren, I've got bigger things to worry about. And then you come here to blame me for something that you're just as guilty of—and you expect me to forgive you."

"I wasn't thinking."

"You really don't care about me, do you?" She was more hurt than angry.

He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. "I care about you more than I've ever cared about anyone."

"That's not saying a lot. I think I'm the only person who ever put up with you—that's the only reason you're mad about these last few years, because you just didn't find anyone better than me."

"Eames," he said through a shaky voice.

She shook her head, "If you had only let me in, I would've given everything to you."

He exhaled forcefully. His vision blurred and heart raced. Still on his knees in front of her, he said, "Give me another chance." He put his head down and pressed his lips to her bare thigh.

"I'm exhausted, Goren."

He got up and went to the bookshelf. He pulled _The Prophet_ from the shelf and filliped to the chapter: "Friendship." He began to read aloud:

_"Your friend is your needs answered. He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. And he is your board and your fireside. For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace."_

"Goren—"

"You put this on that card for a reason," he said, "it means something to you." He continued:

_"And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unclaimed. When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence… let your best be for your friend… And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures."_

She shook her head, "Yeah, it means something to me. I famed that photo for you, I wrote that note for you—it was going to be a Christmas present. I just want you to take it and leave."

"Eames, don't shut me out of your life. I wish I could go back a few hours and undo everything, but I can't. I know it's always you who has had to forgive, and I'm sorry, I wish it wasn't that way."

She was silent and stared off into the distance. She was confused by this behavior. They have never had a fight like this; he has never begged; she has never broken down in front of him. This was not them. They usually ignored each other until the pain and problem was just a memory. She wanted him to leave and give her distance; that's what she expected of him. He wasn't moving.

He sat down next to her on the couch and sat as silently as her. Many minutes passed. Both of their breathing slowed as they calmed. They were sitting close enough to feel the heat radiating off each others' bodies, but not close enough to be touching.

Goren stared at the framed Polaroid sitting on the coffee table. Finally, he said, "You're the only person who's ever loved me."

She didn't say anything or even move.

After a while, she leaned over slightly and rested her head on his shoulder. He could smell her scent. Her perfume-less scent was intoxicating. If this was her forgiveness, he felt even worse for picking a fight with her. He rested his head against hers.

He opened the book to the page where he had slipped the photo all those years ago. There was a Polaroid size imprint on the page. It must have been there for years. He silently reread the part Eames had quoted in the note card. Then, to himself, he read the notes he had written in the margins of the book. He wrote:

"Is it during absence that love is truly confirmed? Or is it the reunion after an absence that confirms it?"

He still didn't have an answer. He continued to flip through the pages.

His massive size had always been both intimidating and comforting to Eames. At this moment, it was especially true. As she closed her eyes she could hear the slow turning of the pages and she could feel his every shallow breath. She didn't want to be angry with him, but she was. She didn't want to lose him again, but she might. She didn't want him to change, but she wanted him to be different.

The fire in her fireplace was nearly out. The house was cold and Goren again wondered why she only wore shorts and a tank top.

"Have you changed the bandage on your arm?" He asked softly.

"No."

"Did you hear what the doctor said?"

"No."

"You aren't concerned about gangrene setting in, are you?"

"No."

He slowly lifted his head and she lifted hers from his shoulder. He got up and found the first aid supplies he had purchased and returned to her.

"What are you doing?" She asked.

"It'll get infected if you don't take care of it."

"It's fine."

He motioned for her to hold out her arm. She did. Slowly, he unwrapped the gauze and revealed her wound. It was swollen and discolored.

Eames said with a moan, "I'm going to have a bad scar."

Goren lifted her arm slightly and examined it. "Maybe not. By the time it heals and your skin adjusts, it will be about half the size."

"I hope you're right."

"I think you'll be surprised how well it heals."

He pulled open bandages and began to rewrap her arm. "When I was in the army," he said, "I was on leave in Ireland and I got into a scuffle with a local." A small smile formed on his lips. "A guy cut me open with a piece of broken glass." He pointed to a spot just below his rips. "I was out in the countryside and there were no hospitals close by, so I was stitched up by some drunk, eighty year old veterinarian who was blind in one eye."

"Sure."

"My stitches looked terrible the next day. My skin was all bunched and folded in strange directions. I was sure I would have the worst looking scar, but once the stitches were removed, it looked fine. Now I can hardly tell."

He finished wrapping her arm and said, "There."

"Thank you."

"I think you have a slight fever," he said. "You're skin is hot and you don't seem to notice how cold it is in here."

He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, "you're warm."

She sighed, "this day just gets better and better."

"You just need some rest." He lowered his head, "Is there anything I can do before I leave?"

She whispered something he didn't quite catch.

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

She shook her head.

He stared at her for a moment. There were a million things he knew he should say to her, but he couldn't verbalize any of them. Finally, he lightly squeezed her hand and said, "my partner—"

Then he left.


	20. A Temporary Assignment

**Back to Major Case**

**A TEMPORARY ASSIGNMENT**

By afternoon, Nichols had hit a brick wall. All they needed was John Wayne, but no one could find him. Nichols looked across the desk to Stevens. She was engrossed in something.

"What are you working on?" He asked.

She looked up. "These are photos from the video surveillance of the stock exchange. Remember when Mike Wilson was here? We had a tip from some woman who said Wilson was at the exchange before the murders. The tip was false; he doesn't show up on any of the videos."

"Yeah, we know he wasn't there."

"So, who called in the tip? Who knew to set him up?"

"I'm guessing it was John Wayne."

"But a woman called it in. Probably his girlfriend."

"So?"

"So that's reason to bring her in. We made her think there's another woman in John Wayne's life. Because of that, I think she'll give him up if we charge her with the crime."

Nichols stood. "Let's go get her."

It didn't take long for the girlfriend to give them the address of where they could find John Wayne. A few hours after that, two officers led a handcuffed John Wayne into the squad room.

Stevens and Nichols stood next to each other and watched him be escorted to a holding cell. Now the hard work really began. Stevens nudged Nichols lightly in the rib, "I think we should call Goren. He needs to be here for this."

"You're right."

"Are we going to tell Eames?"

Nichols sighed, "I don't know."

"Maybe we should at least tell her that he's in custody."

They made their calls and let John Wayne sit alone.

* * *

The phone buzzed on his nightstand and pulled him out of a deep sleep. It stopped. His semi-aware state started to fade back into sleep when his phone woke him.

"Hello?" Goren said in a low tone.

"Did I wake you?" Nichols said on the other end.

"Zack?"

"Yes, Goren. Look, we have John Wayne here now, if you want a shot at him."

"I'll be right there."

Goren sat at the edge of his bed as his eyes adjusted and his mind cleared. He looked at the clock and couldn't believe it was two in the afternoon. He remembered drinks with Nichols and his fight with Eames, but for the life of him he couldn't remember if that was last night or last week.

On his nightstand was a bottle of sleep aids. He only used them when it was absolutely necessary, so he figured it was last night when he fought with Eames. He clawed out of bed and tried to forget how bad he felt.

* * *

Goren knew that John Wayne would show up soon, but he was surprised to hear that he didn't turn himself in. As he looked through the window into the interrogation room, Goren wondered what John Wayne did in these last few days. What business did he have to take care of before he was detained?

Stevens and Nichols walked into the observation room and looked through the window to John Wayne. "Ready?" Nichols asked.

"Yeah."

Goren sat down directly in front of John Wayne. Stevens also sat and Nichols stood in the corner.

Goren did not have his notebook. He looked John Wayne in the eyes.

"I'm Detective Goren. We've already met."

Wayne nodded. "Hello."

"You shot a cop the other day."

He looked to his lawyer, who nodded. "Yes. I apologize."

Goren looked to Stevens. He couldn't believe John Wayne's calm demeanor.

Stevens leaned forward, "you apologize?"

"Yes."

"Why did you do it?"

He was silent.

"You did it because you knew it was only a matter of time before we arrested you for the murder of the stockbrokers and Erin Copland." Stevens paused, "Right?"

"How is the officer?" John Wayne asked.

Stevens and Goren looked at each other again.

"Lieutenant," Stevens corrected.

"How is the Lieutenant?" He repeated.

"Well," Goren said, "if she were dead, I wouldn't be allowed to be in the same room with you."

John Wayne nodded.

Goren could feel his face get hot. "Why did you kill the brokers?"

He was silent.

"They were blackmailing you. You knew them from school. But you didn't call the police. You wanted to deal with things on your own."

More silence.

There was a knock on the window. Goren couldn't believe they were being called off.

The three detectives walked into the observation room and were greeted by the ADA. It was Ron Carver.

Goren was shockingly happy to see him. They shook hands.

"Are you back?" Goren asked.

"Well, the call went out and I saw you and Detective Eames tied to the case, so I traded with a friend. I thought it would be nice to work Major Case again."

"It's good to see you."

"Likewise, detective. Send Detective Eames my best."

"I will."

Nichols pointed to John Wayne through the window. "Mr. Carver, what are we doing with him?"

"I am going to charge him with attempted murder. Sometimes the act of getting charged, processed and fitted for an orange jumpsuit can scare men like him into talking. It will take a few hours, and then I can have him back to you. Any objections?"

"Nichols and I were hoping to move quickly with him," Stevens said, "I'd rather not wait to continue."

"I understand," Carver said, "but it has been my experience that a man who confesses to one lesser crime but not the rest, is a man who is confident he will get off—a slap on the wrist. I hope to scare him into one of Detective Goren's tricks."

Stevens shrugged, "wont scaring him only make him want to keep his mouth shut. If he's confident, he might confess."

"I agree with my partner. We need to push him now," Nichols said.

Carver nodded. "I will give you until nine tonight. That gives you a few hours. Then I will charge him and process him. Please make sure he does not recant his current confession."

"Thanks," Stevens said.

"I'm just going to watch," Goren said to Nichols and Stevens. He felt out of place and disoriented.

Carver and Goren watched in the observation room for sometime as Stevens and Nichols floated around the room, pressing John Wayne.

Carver said, "They work well together."

"Yeah," Goren said. He had admired it all week.

"Nothing like you and Eames, though. That was artful. I was often impressed."

Goren nodded.

"You complemented each other well, especially in the interrogation room. I was disappointed when I heard you two went your separate ways."

"It was inevitable."

Carver nodded, "I guess a partnership, like a marriage, is only good if you can get through the most difficult times and still know it's worth it. And look, you're back together."

"It's a temporary assignment."

"I hope that's not true."

"It's temporary," Goren repeated.

* * *

Eames shared a basket full of sweets with Grace. Sam delivered it himself. There was more cake and cookies and brownies than Grace had ever seen. Eames was too tired and her arm was too sore to object to Grace eating all she could.

"Don't you want some real food?" Eames asked her daughter.

She didn't need an answer.

On the coffee table, the framed Polaroid reminded her of the night before. She became angry all over again. What made her most mad was the fact that he didn't take it with him.

It was a gift. She thought he'd like it.

He didn't take it. Despite their deep benevolence for one another, they have always lacked true closeness. This was a glaring example of the distance between them.


	21. Not A Care In the world

**Back to Major Case**

**NOT A CARE IN THE WORLD**

John Wayne was arraigned the next day for shooting Eames, but the murder charges were still being worked out. Carver didn't have enough evidence to charge Jonathan Waynesfield with the murders of Copland and the stockbrokers, so the detectives continued to look into his past and present for something new to appear.

Goren had watched Nichols and Stevens interrogate John Wayne the previous day and took notes as he sat alone. The captain only periodically stopped in, and Carver left after a few hours. It was in those hours alone that Goren prepared for his shot at John Wayne. As Goren stared through the window, he despised John Wayne and envied Nichols and Stevens.

When John Wayne reappeared after arraignment, Goren collected his notebook and proceeded to the interrogation room.

Goren was simultaneously in his element and an outsider—in a place he was in most control and most at ease, he was uncertain.

"Jonathan," Goren opened his notebook slowly. "You didn't know that Erin had betrayed you."

"What?" John Wayne asked.

"You went to school with Erin Copland, didn't you?"

John Wayne was silent.

"It's okay, John, I have your records. You attended Kingsborough Community College together, and had several classes together."

"There are a lot of people at that school. I don't remember who I sat next to in world history."

Goren shuffled through some papers. "You had classes with her and a broker named Romano. Romano, as you know, is dead. Copland is dead. They were murdered on the same night, and they both knew you."

Wayne's lawyer chimed in: "Mr. Waynesfield has already discussed this with the other detectives. He went to school with Copland and Romano, but he had no ties with them other than the coincidence of having classes together."

Truth was that they had gone over this many times with no avail.

"Your gun," Goren continued, "the gun you used to kill the brokers, was the same one you used to shoot my partner."

"Like I said to the other detectives, I gave that gun to my girlfriend. She was supposed to keep it in a safe spot—for protection. She gave it back to me the night before I saw you and your partner. I don't know where it was before that. Maybe she killed them."

"We know that the three stockbrokers were blackmailing you. We have the emails and the phone records."

Truth was they had none of those things. They were still being collected and sorted through.

"You don't have those things."

"Well," Goren said, "yesterday we didn't. But today, after looking through one broker's apartment, we found it on his computer. He taped conversations, saved emails—he did it all as insurance. In one of his emails to Romano, he writes about how scared he is of you. He thinks you'll kill them or have them killed. He talks about the kind of power you have in this city. He wants to back out."

John Wayne sat completely still.

"Tell us how you managed to kill them and leave the Stock Exchange undetected, John?"

The lawyer took a deep breath. "Produce the emails and we'll talk. Until then, not another word."

Goren stepped into the observation room where the captain, Caver, Nichols and Stevens waited.

"It's a step forward," the captain said. "Let's just hope we get some real incriminating evidence."

Nichols chimed in. "Tech teams are still going through their computers."

"Okay, we'll wait."

They all left the room and Goren, for the first time, felt like they were on the final stretch of the case. He didn't need emails or phone records now, he just needed space to work. Goren had finally made a tiny crack in John Wayne's exterior.

He went back to his desk with the intention finding an edge—the kind that put John Wayne in his hands—but instead his mind wandered to personal troubles. He looked at his watch: it approached 9 p.m..

There were still piles of papers on Eames' desk. He shuffled through his own papers and couldn't shake the aimless feeling that overcame him.

He looked over to Stevens and Nichols at their desks. They didn't look aimless at all. Stevens noticed Goren.

"Goren," she said as she approached him, "can I have a word with you?"

She walked into an interview room. He followed.

"I talked to Eames yesterday. I told her we had John Wayne."

Goren nodded.

"She asked me how you're doing."

"I'm fine."

"I don't know you, Goren, but I don't think you're fine."

"I'm just tired."

"If Zack were injured or shot or harmed in anyway, I wouldn't be fine."

"Your point?"

"I'd feel lost without Zack. I'm a better cop because I know he's there for me and that I am there for him. Goren, her injury is not your fault."

He rubbed his eyes. "I just want to close this case, okay."

She held up her hand. "Why don't you work in this room? You can shut the door and concentrate."

He nodded; he was surprised she understood his aimlessness. "I was best when I worked with her," he admitted.

"I know."

"How did she sound—on the phone?"

"She sounded a little upset."

He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"Goren, I don't get upset over people I don't care about. I get upset over people I love."

Goren took a deep breath.

Stevens nodded. "You'll work better in here."

She was right. He was able to concentrate in his enclosed space. He made a timeline of events, gathered pictures, and made notes about John Wayne. As he shuffled through a box of photos Erin Copland's parents provided, he came across one of her and John Wayne. It was a Polaroid of them standing next to each other in front of what could have been an entrance to Kingsborough College. Copland stood straight and looked into the camera and Wayne leaned into her so that their faces nearly touched.

He ran his fingers along the edge of the photo.

That was all he needed.

By the time he worked into a comfortable place, a confident mindset, the atmosphere in the room seemed to change.

He looked up. Eames was in the squad room in her work attire and a sling. People began to crowd around her and smile. He couldn't hear distinct words, but he could see their faces. They all seemed genuinely happy to see her. Most did not know her, but it didn't matter. It took a while for the crowd to die down, but eventually it did and she sat down at her desk.

Goren smiled. It was such a familiar sight. He imagined that the image of her sitting at her desk in the Major Case Squad room would be imbedded in his memory forever. That image was with him in dark times and he knew it would comfort him in the future.

Finally, he came out of his den, crossed the room and sat down across from her. "Hey."

She looked up, "hey."

"You feeling okay?"

"Yes. I hear John Wayne is in custody."

"Yep. Are you sure you want to be here?"

"I have a case to wrap up."

"But you don't want to be here."

"No, I don't, but tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I want all of my paperwork done so I can spend the weekend with my family and be done with this case."

He looked at his watch. "I understand. But it's kind of late."

She nodded, "I haven't been sleeping well, and sometimes it's harder to leave Grace during the day than at night. This way she'll never know I was gone—" Eames smiled, "except I did tell her I was working tonight."

"She's with your sister?"

"Yeah."

Goren looked around as if everyone where watching them.

Eames asked, "How's the case going?"

He shrugged. "He admits to shooting you, but not to the other stuff."

"I'm sure you won't have any trouble with that," she said sincerely.

He appreciated the confidence. "We'll see."

"You're desk is overly clean," she noticed.

He pointed to his fishbowl office. "I'm working in that room."

"Oh. Okay."

"If you have a chance to join me, I could use someone to help bounce around ideas."

"Maybe," she said.

He nodded and went back to the other room and his work.

About an hour later she opened the glass door and sat in the chair next to him.

"Well," she said, "fill me in."

He smiled.

It was the unobstructed activity of creating ideas and structure that brought each of them solace and stimulation—just talking through the case. They didn't leave out any details, and where facts were slim, they constructed a plausible scenario. They asked questions, gave answers, and found—and sometimes created—pieces to the puzzle.

"Do you think the captain will let me into the interrogation room with you and John Wayne?" She asked.

"I don't know. Probably not." He lowered his head. "_I_ don't think you should be there with him."

"Why?"

"You know why. He shot you." He said softly.

She looked away.

"I know you can handle yourself professionally in a situation like this—better than I can—but it's probably best if you don't."

"I know," she said. And she did know. Now as a lieutenant, she wouldn't let one of her detectives interrogate their own assailant.

"I want to try him again tomorrow morning." Goren said.

"Are you going home?" She asked, "Or are you going to stick around until morning?"

"I think I'll stay. Getting paperwork done sound like a good idea." He took a deep breath. "I've spent more Thanksgivings in this building than I'd like to admit—there's never anyone around. Maybe we can clean this up by noon tomorrow? Then maybe I don't have to spend all of Thanksgiving here."

"That's wishful thinking."

"Never the less," he said, "I think I'll stay through the night and start with what I can of the report."

She pointed to her desk, "I still have to finish my report, too. I'll end up staying late, I'm sure."

"You are rather slow with your reports."

She couldn't tell if he was joking or insulting. "It's called being thorough."

"It's called procrastination."

"Look," she said forcefully, "make sure you pull John Wayne into one of your traps."

He smiled half-heartedly.

"I hear Caver is around."

"Yep, just for us."

"I can't wait to see him," she said.

Through the glass walls and door that divided them from the rest of the Major Case squad room, Eames could see it begin to clear out. It was late. Everyone was preparing for the next day with their families.

"You know, Eames, you were right to think that our case and the stockbroker case were tied together."

"Did I say that?" She asked.

"When we went to the Copland crime scene a few days ago, you pointed out that we were not far from the Stock Exchange and that it was a possibility. I dismissed it."

"Oh, that's right."

"Sorry."

She shook her head.

He looked at his watch. It was just past midnight. "Happy Thanksgiving," he said.

She looked at the wall clock. "Happy Thanksgiving."

They were carefully avoiding the trap of more sensitive topics. On one hand they were grateful to not deal with it; on the other hand they were ready for resolve.

"Coffee?"

"Sure."

He left the room in search of coffee. It was the one thing, without doubt, that he could give her with perfection. He never messed up her coffee, he never got it wrong.

"Alex," Nichols said as he stepped into the room, "Where's Goren?"

"He just stepped out. He should be back soon."

"Okay. Give him this." He gave Eames a paper. "It's a text message from Romano's phone to Copland's phone the night of the murders. He asks her where they're going to meet. She tells him they'll meet where they planned. He asks her to remind him where that is. It was sent at least an hour after his death."

Eames nodded. "The killer sent it."

Nichols smiled. "Yep. Copland was expecting Romano but got John Wayne instead."

"Then he killed her."

"Goren will be happy to see that." Nichols turned to walk away, but stopped. "Alex."

She looked up.

"The other night I had a drink or two with Goren—" He smiled, "I can't remember everything, but I know I told him about our—you know, _relationship_. I didn't think it was a big deal at the time, but now I'm thinking maybe it was something I should've kept to myself."

Eames thought about it for a moment. "Zack, it's fine that he knows."

"I'd assumed he already knew—but I guess not."

"I never told him."

Nichols smiled, "why not? Are you ashamed of me?"

Eames laughed, "Yes, I am, actually."

"That's it, Eames," Nichols pointed a finger at her jokingly, "If you're so ashamed of me, then we are done."

Eames smirked, "fine. You really were not that good."

"Ahh. You think I'm joking, Eames, but that's it—" he pointed to his flexed arm, "you can't have any more of this."

"Get out of here. I need to work." She couldn't hide her grin or pleasure with him.

He smiled back at her.

She was grateful for his willingness to make her laugh. She could always count on him to make her forget—if only for a moment—all of her troubles.

She thought about Goren's demeanor that night. It was all clearer now. "Zack, did you tell Goren that we were engaged?"

He shook his head, "No, I don't think I did."

"I was just wondering."

"Do you want me to tell him? I can."

"Zack, leave me alone," she said with a dismissive wave of the hand and a smile. He amused her.

She watched Nichols walk away with his long strides, well-fitted jeans, and not a care in the world.


	22. Halfway

**Back to Major Case**

**HALFWAY**

Eames was happy for the coffee Goren provided. He still knew what she liked. Eventually, after wandering around 1PP in the first hours of Thanksgiving—procrastinating— Eames made her way back to her desk and continued to write her report. Goren cleaned up his mess in the interview room and began his own report. At his desk, he felt a sense of ease with her in her spot and him in his.

Nichols and Stevens were gone. The captain left hours ago. Sam had not been in all day. Only a janitor remained, and even he wasn't there for very long.

The squad room was empty except for them. She looked across the table and could see the scar on his head. Again she was filled with that strange sensation of sadness. She may have never known about his car accident. She knew there must be countless things she did not know about his life in those five years. There were certainly things he missed in her life. She wondered if those things were important. Again, she stared at the barely visible scar.

Abruptly, she said with regretful softness: "Zack and I were engaged a few years ago."

Her voice rang through the room. She was startled by it.

Goren lifted his head. "What?" He truly had not heard her.

She repeated herself.

He put his hands over his face and let out a long sigh.

The silence of the room echoed in her ears. Most of the lights were out and the glow of their desk lights left her feeling hollow.

He felt his heart race. His voice was shaky. "Zack said that you two just have sex. He said it's nothing serious."

She didn't like the fact that he put it so bluntly. "That's partly true. We were just friends for a while. And we're just friends now." She paused, and then said offhandedly, "He's rather romantic, though, and I was taken by that."

"I don't want to hear this," he whispered.

"I don't want to tell you this, frankly, but I think you need to understand."

"I do understand, Eames. It's clear. When the two of you are in the same room together, it's like no one else exists. I think you and Zack have something but are too stubborn to do anything about it."

"Well," she said, "if that's what you think, then I do need to explain it to you."

He lowered his head, "why does it matter?"

She thought about it for a moment and wondered the same thing. "Maybe it doesn't matter at all," she said finally, "but I look at you sitting across from me—just as I did for years—and you almost look the same." She looked away, "but you're not the same; I'm not the same."

He was motionless while she paused.

She pointed to his head, "I can see that scar on your head. It reminds me that there is so much distance between us. I didn't know you were in a serious car accident. _You_ didn't know I took painting classes for a year."

He didn't respond.

"It matters because we matter, Bobby."

He nodded.

"Zack stayed in touch with _me_. It's easy to be with him," she said. "He does all the work. He's easygoing, entertaining, fun—he plays the piano."

Goren was silent for a moment or two. "He's a good man; I know that."

"Yes, he is. It was nice having someone take the initiative. I needed that."

Goren rubbed his eyes. He understood.

"When I'm with Zack everything is exciting and interesting. He took me to the museum and the theatre. He introduced me to jazz. He even took me kayaking once—no one has ever surprised me with something like that."

"Fine," Goren said, "he's a fun, romantic guy. Who wouldn't love him?"

She held out her hand. "The thing is, when we're together, we're like kids; we have a lot of fun, but there's not a lot of depth to our relationship."

"But, Eames, you wanted to marry him?"

"For about a month, yes." She tilted her head. "On that kayaking trip, we decided we should get married. After we got back, and started talking about moving in together, we both realized that neither one of us really wanted that." She leaned forward to emphasize her point. "In fact, we both realized that we only needed each other to fight loneliness and old age. And for a while it worked: we were both a little less lonely and felt a little younger."

"What about the English teacher?"

"Oh," she sighed, "That was nothing."

"So, you don't love Zack?"

She shook her head. "I care for him very much, and I may love him in some ways, but I'm not in love with him."

He nodded, "It's okay if you are."

"What?"

"It's okay if you're in love with him. You don't have to keep that from me."

"I'm not in love with him, Bobby."

The silence in the room made them feel exposed. He rubbed the scar on his head. There was a great deal of distance between them.

"I didn't tell you everything about the accident." He took a deep breath, "there was someone else in the car with me."

She tilted her head. "I thought you said no one else was involved."

"I had been seeing a woman for about a year. As you know, I'd never had a relationship for that long. I really worked hard to maintain that year. I was sick of being alone, and she was great. She was something to look forward to at the end of the day."

Eames watched his expression disappear into distance.

"She was fine—the accident. She spent a few nights in the hospital. I was driving fast because she told me that we were done. She wasn't mad or confrontational—in fact, I couldn't think of a nicer breakup than the one she gave me, but I was hurt—even though I knew it was coming." His next words were cracked and strained. "In some ways I wanted out, too. But I was being reckless and almost killed us."

Eames knew that still weighed heavily on him. "While you were together, she cared for you?"

"Yes, she was wonderful, but she never loved me. I never loved her. But we were both alone and not good at relationships—it worked for a while."

Eames nodded, "It was easier than being alone."

He looked her in the eye and didn't bother wiping away the few tears that rolled down his cheeks. "Alex, I understand your relationship with Zack. And I'm happy he's been there for you. I really am."

She sighed. "Aside from the unfortunate ending, I am happy you had someone, Bobby. I used to worry about you. When we were partners, I always wished you would find someone who could see you the way I see you." She smiled, "I used to feel like I must be the smartest person in the world because I was the one who could see just how wonderful you are."

He took a deep breath and fought the heaviness in his heart. "Thank you," he said softly. "I really am sorry for the other night. I wish I could take it back."

"I know you're sorry." She tilted her head, "I'm still a little upset with you, but I think it'll be okay."

He took a deep breath. "Okay."

They stared at each other for a moment. Still, the quiet in the room was uncomfortable and cold.

"Bobby, why didn't you take the photo with you?"

He looked away and shifted his weight in his chair. "I don't know. It's not a very good answer, but I _don't_ know."

"Oh."

He looked around the room again. They were still alone, and everything was dark. The sun would be rising soon, but light had yet to form.

"It's not that I don't want it," he began, "it's very nice. Thoughtful." He looked down and sighed. "It's just—it was always comforting to know that you had that picture of us." He ran a hand through his hair. "I won't _ever_ forget you. I don't need a photograph of you to remember what you look like or the color of your eyes. I don't need a picture to remind me of everything you've done for me—I think about you all the time."

She closed her eyes for moment and waited for him to continue.

"This is going to sound stupid," he said, "but I didn't want you to forget me. So, I thought that by you having that Polaroid, there was a chance that you would think of me from time to time. And it's stupid and childish to think that you even kept the picture. I just wanted to believe that if you had the picture and thought of me, then we were connected."

Eames took a deep breath and whipped the tears from her eyes.

"Goren—"

She reached across her desk and held out her hand. He met her halfway. They sat with their hands clasp as the first rays of light began ease into the building.

"I may have gone days or even weeks without thinking about you," she said, "but I could never forget you."

He squeezed her hand lightly.

After a few moments they heard elevator doors open. Slowly, they pulled their hands apart and continued to work.


	23. Thanksgiving Morning

**Back to Major Case**

**THANKSGIVING MORNING**

Goren sat in the interrogation room with his notebook opened and an evidence bag containing John Wayne's gun. Nichols sat next to him. With their backs to the window, they waited in silence for John Wayne to arrive.

In the observation room, Eames and Stevens peered through the window at their partners. They too were silent.

There seemed to be a silence to everything. The building was far less populated than it normally was on a Thursday morning. Eames looked at her watch and knew the parade had yet to begin—she usually watched it on TV with Grace—it was their Thanksgiving tradition. This would be the first year they didn't watch the Thanksgiving Day Parade together.

Soon, John Wayne and his lawyer entered the interrogation room. As Eames watched John Wayne sit down, she had less hatred for him than she thought she would. Her heart began to race. She was nervous. She was completely confident that Goren, Nichols and Stevens would close the case, but the fact that she couldn't be in the interrogation room made her uneasy.

"You okay?" Stevens asked.

Eames smiled a little and shifted her arm in the sling. She was little uncomfortable with how transparent she must be. "Fine, thanks."

Carver stepped into the observation room.

"Detective Eames," he said in his always-steady tone.

"Hi," was all she could get out. It was a relief to see him. They had always gotten along.

They exchanged hugs and pleasantries before turning their attention to the window.

Goren had already begun—he skipped all his normal introductory techniques: "I see you sitting here with an expensive attorney in an expensive suit. You're wearing clothes and shoes and a watch that cost more than my car. You're put together, every hair is in place. The one thing you don't have is her."

Goren tapped Wayne's left hand.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It means that you can get almost anything you want. _Almost_." Goren tipped his head, "Erin Copland: she was the one. You loved her. When you went to school with her, you took her for granted. You weren't the best friend to her, but she, somehow, still liked you."

"I was always a good friend to her."

Nichols said: "You killed her."

Wayne shook his head.

"You weren't going to, though." Goren said calmly, "It just happened. You didn't even know she'd betrayed you."

"She didn't betray me," John Wayne said. "Besides, didn't I tell you I was done talking until you showed me the emails you claimed to have found?"

Nichols ignored him and leaned forward, "Once you found out Erin sold you out, you couldn't forgive her. Not being able to forgive a person is difficult. Isn't it?"

"I was not mad at her," Wayne said.

His lawyer interjected. "Stop."

John Wayne did as he was told.

In the other room, Caver said softly to Eames, "I don't know what they're talking about."

Eames peered through the window. "I'm not sure either."

They both looked to Stevens.

"I don't know. To me it looks like Goren has a hunch and Nichols is playing along."

Nichols and Goren looked at each other for a moment. Nichols smiled at Goren, "well, John Wayne forgave her. That's nice of him."

Goren shook his head, "I don't think _I _could forgive her." He turned his attention to Wayne. "While you were going to school, you and Copland and Romano were friends. They helped you pass your classes—you were bright, but not very academic. You made some money on that internet company, but it wasn't your idea, was it? The company—it was Romano's."

Wayne sat still. "Yes, it was Romano's idea, and I never denied it."

His lawyer stepped in. "We have documents: Romano gave all rights to Mr. Waynesfield before the company was sold."

"That's fine," Goren pointed to Wayne, "but _you_ made the money and became successful while Romano worked in your shadow. He never became the big shot you are now. He was jealous of you. So, he got some of his friends—including Erin Copland—and they decided to work some money out of you."

"That's right," Wayne said, "they were blackmailing me. They threatened to expose me as some sort of fraud. It's not true, and they'd never be able to prove anything, but it would ruin me. Even an unfounded rumor could devastate my career."

"So," Nichols said, "you thought it would be cheaper to pay them off than to risk the rumor. Weren't you worried that if you paid them off they would still ruin you?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I never planned to pay them."

"You met them with the money, just like they asked, didn't you?"

"Well yeah, I had to show up with the money so I didn't end up dead."

Nichols folded his arms. "You knew you were going to kill them, right? That's why you weren't worried about anything. How did you get the gun into the building?"

"I own that building," Wayne said with a smile, "I told the guard that I was late and I couldn't wait in line to go through security. They let me in. I bypassed the metal detectors."

"You stayed late and killed them."

"No, I didn't. They killed each other."

"With your gun?"

"Yes."

"How did that happen?" Nichols asked.

"They frisked me and took the gun and the money. Romano shot his buddies once he was sure there was real money in the suitcase."

"How did Romano die?"

"I fought him for the gun—it was life or death. The gun went off. It killed him. It was all self-defense."

"But you didn't call the police," Nichols said. "Innocent people call the police."

"I was scared. In shock." Wayne looked to Goren, "I thought it all was a horrible dream until you and your partner showed up to my apartment."

His lawyer jumped in, "Mr. Waynesfield had a psychotic break. Post traumatic stress—I'm sure we can find a psychiatrist to confirm this."

"You have lied to us from the moment we met you, John Wayne," Goren said slowly, "we have no reason to believe a word you say."

"Well," John Wayne said as he relaxed into his chair, "you're the ones with the burden of proof."

Goren knew he didn't have the evidence to prove Wayne's story wrong. "You're right."

In the observation room Carver looked to Eames and Stevens cautiously, "do you think you'll be able to close this?"

"Yes." Eames and Stevens said simultaneously.

Nichols stood and left the interrogation room without saying a word. He entered the observation room and caught Stevens' attention. "Do you have Romano's file?"

"Yeah," she shuffled through a few folders.

"How tall was he?"

"Six-three."

Nichols rubbed his chin. "How tall is John Wayne?'

She shuffled through more files, "five-six."

Nichols looked through the window at Wayne, the lawyer and Goren. "That's interesting."

Eames chimed in: "I have a problem believing that Wayne could have put up a good fight with Romano for the gun. If anything, Wayne should be dead after that confrontation."

"Look at him," Stevens said, "he's gloating over the fact that we can't prove him wrong."

"You're both right," Nichols said, "he's confident."

"The autopsy report shows no bruising or signs of struggle on Romano," Eames said. "It doesn't seem like he was in a fight at all."

Nichols went back into the interrogation room and whispered something Goren's ear.

Goren pointed to Wayne and said: "Stand up."

"What?"

"Stand." Goren said, "We don't think you could have fought Romano. You're a small man—five-six, maybe—and Romano is about Detective Nichols' size. He would have killed you."

"I can handle myself."

Nichols and Goren looked at each other and smiled.

"I can handle myself," John Wayne repeated.

Goren pulled the gun out of the evidence bag.

The lawyer asked, "what's this all about?"

"Your client says he fought Romano for the gun, correct?"

The lawyer and Wayne nodded.

"I'd like to see how that happened. You know, burden of proof."

Wayne stood slowly.

"I'll pretend I'm Romano," Nichols said with a smile.

"How tall are you Detective Nichols?" Goren asked.

"Six-four."

"And Romano was?"

"Six-three."

"Good." He handed Nichols the gun. "This will work." Goren turned to Wayne, "Show us what happened."

Wayne looked around, "it happened so fast."

"Do your best."

Wayne sighed, "I was standing behind Romano when he shot them. Before he turned around, I ran up behind him to grab the gun."

"Show us."

Nichols stood with his back to Wayne with the gun pointed in front of him.

"I just walked up like this," Wayne said as he approached Nichols, "pulled on his arm and we struggled for the gun. The gun went off, hit Romano, and I grabbed the money and got out of there."

"You also grabbed the gun, and Romano's phone." Goren reminded him.

"Yeah, I guess."

"No, that can't be what happened. I believe that Romano must have killed them—there's no way you did—but there is also no way you could have fought Romano enough to get him shot. All he would have had to do is hold the gun above his head and there would've been no way you could have reached it."

"Are you mocking me, Detective?"

Goren looked to Nichols, "can you hold the gun above your head?"

Nichols did as he was told.

"Okay, try to get the gun from him."

"This is stupid."

"It's not possible, John Wayne. This story has some real flaws. I think there was someone with you—a big guy to do the dirty work. There is no way you could have survived that situation alone. They would have killed you."

"I was alone in that room—alright?"

"Who was with you?"

"Come on, I was alone. Those three were idiots for messing with me."

Goren smiled, "they underestimated you."

"That's right; they never thought I would show up with a gun."

"And kill them."

Wayne sat down. "It was self-defense."

Goren pulled a Polaroid out of his notebook. It was the one he had found in a box of Copland's belongings. It was the one of Copland and Wayne. He set in down tenderly on the table and slid it across to Wayne.

Goren waited for Wayne to pick it up before saying, "You both look happy in that picture."

John Wayne stayed quiet as he set the picture back down.

"What happened to the two of you, Jonathan?" Goren held up the photo, "look, you were both young and the most perfect you had ever been. It was only a few years ago, but so much changed with you two."

Wayne shook his head, "we just drifted apart. I hadn't seen her in years."

"But you thought about her constantly."

"No, I didn't. I had my career to occupy my time."

"That's all you thought about, right? And it's fine—you're a success. Successful people don't have down time—all work, all the time."

"That's right."

"Were you and Erin Copland ever lovers?"

"No."

"Because you were friends—and it was good that way."

"Sure."

"It must have been difficult," Goren said softly, "when Romano and you fought for the gun and he died. He used to be your friend. You heard his phone ring or something, right? It was Erin. She was calling him."

Wayne looked away for the first time.

Goren continued: "You realized that she was in on this entire blackmail plan with Romano. You used Romano's phone to send her a text message; you pretended to be Romano and asked her where to meet." He showed Wayne and the lawyer the phone records. "Romano could not have sent this: he was already dead."

"I didn't send anything to her," Wayne said with little conviction.

"You met with her not because she betrayed you, but because you loved her. You always loved her. You wanted to show her that you were a man who didn't take any crap from anyone. Romano and his friends blackmailed you but you took care of them."

"I didn't care that she was involved in this thing with Romano—yeah it hurt, but I forgave her."

"Why?" Goren asked.

"She was everything to me." Wayne said. "I loved her from the moment I met her and over time she became part of me."

"But you never did anything about it."

"I loved her so much I was scared. Haven't you ever been in love, Detective?"

"Sure," Goren said.

Wayne smiled, "You're lying."

"Why does it matter?"

Wayne continued, "I didn't do anything about her because I never thought I was good enough for her. The last thing she needed was me dragging her down, so I stayed away. When I met with her that night, I wanted to show her that I still cared for her—despite all of this."

"But you killed her," Goren said.

"I didn't mean to."

"I would never do that to someone I cared for." Goren said, "You beat her to death with something you found near the garbage. You didn't love her."

"Don't tell me how I felt."

"Are happy now, John Wayne? You murdered the only person who ever loved you."

"She never loved me, okay. I know that."

"We found this picture in her things. She kept this photograph of the two of you because you meant something to her—she probably looked at it from time to time and wondered what happened between the two of you. She probably wondered if you ever thought about her. She probably wondered what her life could have been like if she had only told you how she felt."

"She didn't love me. When I met with her that night, she didn't want anything to do with me. I gave her a hand full of cash told her she could have anything she wanted if she'd give me a chance, but she ran the other way."

Goren put up his hands. "Do you think that had anything to do with the fact that you were covered in blood from the men you had just killed."

"If I could forgive her for betraying and blackmailing me, she should've been able to forgive me for killing them."

The lawyer stood. "Can I have a moment with my client?"

Goren and Nichols nodded. They collected their things and left.


	24. Lucky

**Back to Major Case**

**LUCKY**

John Wayne was escorted to a holding cell while Caver talked with Wayne's lawyer. The four detectives quietly stood in the observation room with soft smiles and tired eyes. The hardest part was over, and the warm feeling of momentary victory hovered over all of them. The captain walked in and gave a nod of approval.

"I wish I had been here sooner," the captain said, "but good job—all of you. I would like it if you could finish the paper work today—then you can have the weekend off. Or, you can go home now and do the paperwork tomorrow."

They all nodded and looked to each other.

"Lieutenant Eames, Detective Goren?" the captain said. "When you're done here, can I see you both in my office?"

"Sure," Goren said.

When the captain left the room, Nichols grinned and said, "Good job, team. And look, it's only noon." He pointed to Goren, "You were something else in there."

Goren glanced at Eames and back to Nichols, "thanks."

"I think I'm going to stay and finish the paperwork," Stevens interjected, "and we need to call the stockbrokers' families to let them know about John Wayne." She turned to her partner. "What about you, Zack?"

"Well, I wasn't going to stay," Nichols said with a shrug, "but how can I spend Thanksgiving at your house and eat your food, if you're here?"

She patted him on the back, "I guess you have no choice but to help out."

Stevens left the room while Zack followed asking if she had apple pie for dessert.

Goren and Eames were quiet as they eyed each other from opposing ends of the observation room.

"We got him," Goren said.

"I never doubted it."

Goren ran his hand through his thinning, graying hair. "I wish I could've strangled him."

"Well," Eames said, "he doesn't look like he'll fair well in jail—someone will do that for you."

He nodded.

"You really haven't lost your touch."

He nodded again. "You should get home. I'll finish everything."

"I like that idea, but I don't have much paperwork left; I'll finish now." She looked to him thoughtfully and let out a short breath. "We also need to talk to Copland's parents."

Goren raised his eyebrows to the point where all the skin on his forehead scrunched into a compact area. "Yeah, I guess we should do that today."

"Despite everything," she said as she shifted her weight, "it was great working with you again. I didn't even realize how much I'd missed it."

"It was nice."

"Like old times."

He tipped his head, "kind of like old times."

"Right."

"It was good."

With the exception of their voices, the room was remarkably empty. Even the sounds from outside the observation room were unable to penetrate. She took a deep breath, "You look exhausted."

"That's because I am exhausted."

There was more silence as they fixated on one another. He nodded slightly and pressed his lips together.

"Yeah," she said in a whisper, "I know."

They crossed the squad room and stood in the captain's office.

"Thank you," the captain said, "for the hard work and dedication you both put into this case. Lieutenant Eames, I'm sorry for the turn of events that lead to you injury—I'm just happy you're doing okay. Please promise me you'll take some time off."

"I will," Eames said.

"Good. I'm so impressed with your skills and police work, that I would like to offer you both a permanent position here at Major Case."

Goren and Eames gave each other a sideways glance. Perhaps even a smile passed over each of their lips.

"That's very nice of you," Eames said, "and I'm flattered, but I'm going to decline—I enjoy my current job."

"Well, if you ever stop enjoying it, give me a call."

"Thank you."

The Captain turned to Goren with a raised eyebrow, "Detective Goren?"

He looked to Eames, who only tipped her head slightly, then back to the captain. "Yes, I'd very much like to work here again."

"Good. We'll get all the paperwork filled out on Monday."

"Thank you."

With a wave, the captain wished them a happy Thanksgiving.

When they both sat down at their desks, Eames leaned forward and said, "This is where you belong."

He smiled and looked around.

They worked diligently for a few hours until finally they signed the last documents. Nichols and Stevens did the same.

Stevens stacked the papers on her desk then sat in a chair next to Goren and Eames. "If you're not doing anything," Stevens said, "you're both welcome to come over to my place for Thanksgiving dinner. It's just me, my fiancé and my daughter—" she tipped her head to her partner, "—and Zack, I guess."

"Yeah," Nichols said from his desk, "you both should come—she's a great cook. We always have a great time."

Stevens made face.

"Okay, she's not a great cook, but she's good enough."

"Thank you, Zack." She turned back to Goren and Eames, "what do you say?"

They both looked to each other.

"I'm going to my parents'," Eames said. "But thanks, maybe some other time."

"I going home to sleep," Goren said.

Stevens laughed, "That's a great idea. If you either of you change your mind, though, here's my address." She set a piece of paper down on the table and slipped on her coat. "Let's go, Zack."

He straightened his desk, and then walked around to Stevens' desk and threw a hand full of pens into her top desk drawer.

"Why do you always do that?" Stevens asked.

"That's where we keep the pens. This way I always know where they're at."

Stevens rolled her eyes and turned to Goren and Eames: "It's been a pleasure. You two are as good as rumors say you are."

She shook hands with both of them.

Nichols slipped on his coat before giving Eames a kiss on the top of the head. "Lunch sometime?"

"Sure."

"Good. Tell your parents I said 'hi.'"

"I will."

Nichols then walked over to Goren and shook his hand: "are you sticking around?"

"Yeah, I start Monday."

"That's good to hear."

Stevens said, "Goren, you can partner with Zack. I'm sick of him."

They all kind of laughed.

"Stevie," Nichols said, "that hurts."

She nodded and said flatly, "The truth does hurt."

Nichols and Stevens disappeared, with long matching strides, down the hallway and out of sight.

"They are a good team," Eames said.

"Yeah," Goren said, "sometimes you just get lucky—or unlucky—with partners."

"Did I ever tell you about David Kemp?" Eames asked.

"He was one of your first partners, right? You hated him."

"Yep, he was horrible. I was so happy when I got reassigned. That was an unlucky partnership."

"I only got lucky once," Goren said.

"Me, too."

From the coat rack that still leaned slightly to one side, Goren grabbed his scarf, gloves and coat and slipped them on in a few easy movements.

As Eames cleared her desk, he took Eames' scarf, gloves, and coat off the same rack. When she turned around, he was holding her coat open for her. He gingerly helped her into the coat first, scarf second, and gloves last. Her left shoulder hung unnaturally and awkwardly in the sling and made the task more difficult than it should have been.

While watching the floor numbers on the elevator descend, Goren said, "I'm sorry."

"About what?"

"Your arm, I guess. I'm just sorry for everything."

"I know. I know. Please don't apologize anymore."

The uneasy rumble of the elevator approaching the garage floor echoed in the small area. Their reflections were distorted in the dirty elevator doors—though it was difficult to make out defining features of either of them, his large stature and her comparatively small stance completed the picture.

Before the doors opened, Eames put her hand on Goren's back and patted it reassuringly.

Goren let out a sigh, "let's go talk to Copland's parents."


	25. Goren & Eames

**Back to Major Case**

**GOREN & EAMES**

They sat on the couch and explained to the parents of Erin Copland what happened to their daughter. Goren and Eames answered questions, clarified explanations, and reminded them that this was just the beginning. There would be hearings and eventually a trial—it could take years for this to end. But, they reassured them that eventually it would end; this was just the first step.

Over the years, they had become just as good at this part of the job as they had become in the interrogation room. They knew what order to lay out events, who would say what, and how to use the tone of their voices as both comfort and confidence. They could even predict the family's questions and comments that would surface through tears. Most importantly, though, they knew when to leave.

In the MCS issued SUV, they sat motionless before Goren started the car. Sometimes they would leave situations like this and happily get lunch without a second thought, but there were other times where the silence lasted for days.

"I still hate that part," Eames said as she looked straight ahead, down the dark street.

"Me, too," Goren said, "but it beats the alternative."

He was right. Not finding the killer was a worse conversation; they have had those conversations too.

Eames looked at her watch; it was six at night. "Can you drive me to my parents' house?" Eames asked.

"I'd be happy to."

The drive was long, but Eames filled the time by talking about Grace. It was the first time she had truly opened up to him in these past few days. He listened and only interjected with nods and questions. He knew she was relieved to be done and to go home—to see her girl. He was relieved just to hear Eames' voice.

Eames found comfort with the soft hum of the car, the warmth of the car heater, and smell of Goren's aftershave. It made her wonderfully drowsy.

The car rolled to a stop in front of her parents' home and pulled Eames out of her sleepy conversation. There were cars stacked along the curb, and the lights on both the inside and outside of the house burned brightly. She was home. He turned the car off and she stared out the window.

"My family has problems," she said, focused on some point off in the distance, "but they mean the world to me."

He had never heard her say anything like that before. If she did talk about her family, it was usually tagged with disappointment or distance, but not this time. He looked at the home and could make out lively shadows through the glow of the front windows.

She turned to him: "Come on, I'm starving."

"Ah," Goren stammered, "I've been awake for well over twenty-four hours. I'm going to go home."

She shook her head, "Don't do this, Bobby. I want you to come in—please—let's get something to eat."

He rubbed his eyes and pulled the keys from the ignition before sliding out of the car.

When Eames opened the front door, they were immediately surrounded by the sounds of talking and laughter. Goren followed closely behind as she led him into the living room.

"Hey," nearly everyone said in unison when she entered the room. The adults were drinking. That was followed by gasps and comments of "she really got shot?" Then more laughter.

"Happy Thanksgiving," she said softly—nearly childlike.

Standing behind her, Goren gave a small wave. There were people he recognized, but most he did not.

"You're late," her father said as he approached her.

"I know, Dad. But I'm here now." She gave him a hug.

"Are you okay? How's the arm?" he asked.

"I'm okay."

"You should get something to drink."

"Yeah, thanks, Dad."

Her father turned to Goren. "Bobby?"

Goren extended his hand.

"It's been a while."

"Yes, too long," Goren replied.

"Okay," her father shouted, "we're eating now. Everyone go sit down. Hurry up."

Goren and Eames said hello to her mother and found Grace before sitting down. The small house was bursting at the seams: kids were running and yelling, adults were drinking and yelling, and there was a never ending supply of laughter.

Just as Goren suggested, over dinner Eames told the story of being shot by John Wayne. Despite everyone's concern, the story was a hit. Even Eames was laughing at her story.

Eames' brother interjected, "Let me get this straight. The two of you are standing next to each other, and she's the one who gets hit?"

Goren nodded.

"Wow, what are the odds of that?" Her brother pointed to Goren, "You're like three times bigger than her."

Everyone burst into laughter and Goren nodded, "you're right. It should've been me."

Eames began again, "I still need to finish the story." She looked to her brother, "thanks for interrupting."

"Sorry. Keep going."

She finished her story for the captive audience. Eames seemed different. She had transformed into an Eames he had never known: boisterous and uninhibited, yet small, soft, and nearly fragile. It was a shocking contrast to the quiet, confident, in-charge, attitude she normally presented. He could only rationalize it as the safety of being home—she could let her guard down.

They ate. They drank.

After dinner Eames sat on the couch with Grace in her lap surrounded by nieces, nephews and other family and friends as Goren went to clear the dining room table.

Eames' mother put a hand on Goren's shoulder, "Leave the food."

The table had been cleared of dishes, but the turkey and all the food still sat out in the center of the large table.

"Oh," Goren said.

"People will be coming and going and eating until well past midnight, so we just leave everything out." She smiled just the way Eames did—with a hint of sarcasm.

"Well," Goren said, "let me help with the dishes."

"Okay, if you insist."

He cleaned the kitchen with only the help of Eames' sister, Elizabeth. They made small talk and worked quickly. The content and commotion from the living room spilled into the kitchen.

"Hey, Alex," a voice came piercing through from the living room, "is that the crazy guy?"

There was laughter and some, "shhhhs."

Elizabeth glanced at Goren, but he continued to scrub dishes.

Eames' faint voice carried into the kitchen: "stop."

There was still laughter, but it quickly died.

Eames walked into the kitchen with Grace close behind. Goren had his sleeves rolled up, tie loose and a towel draped over his shoulder.

"Bobby, you don't have to clean up," she said. "That's what Liz is for."

"Thanks," her sister said.

"It's fine," he said.

Eames draped her un-shot arm over Grace's shoulder. "We're going for a walk down to the park. Do either of you want to come?"

"It's late," Liz shook her head.

"I know, but the kids begged me."

"You're a pushover."

Eames smiled. "Come on," she said directly to Goren. "It's a nice night."

He rubbed his eyes, "I was thinking of going home."

"Oh," Eames nodded. She looked down to Grace, "go put your jacket on, kid."

Goren looked to Elizabeth briefly then back to Eames who was following Grace out of the kitchen. "Yeah," he said.

Eames looked back.

"Let me just get my coat."

They meandered down the sidewalk side by side as six or seven kids, including Grace, bounced along in route to the park. Eames pointed to each kid and told Goren whose child they were. He hadn't realized what a big family she had.

The park was well lit and not nearly as empty as he thought it would be. They found a cold bench to sit on.

"Is that him?" Goren nodded to one of the older kids.

"That's him," she said, "the boy-wonder. I don't think he remembers you, though."

"Well, the last time I saw him he was just starting to walk."

"Really? It was that long ago?"

"Yeah. How old is he now?"

"Twelve."

"It's hard to believe."

Grace came running over to them with chattering teeth.

"I'm cold," she said.

"Where's your scarf?" Eames asked.

"I don't know."

"Is it at the house?"

Grace shrugged.

Eames' nephew joined in and explained: "Grace lost her scarf today."

Grace glared at him. "No."

"Yeah," the nephew continued, "we were looking all over the place for it. We can't find her gloves either."

"Grace?" Eames asked.

Grace smiled.

"I don't know what to tell you, sweetheart. Just run around some more—you'll warm up."

Goren asked, "what?"

"She'll warm up," Eames said. "She's fine. She's wearing a jacket."

"Here Grace," Goren said as he took off his own scarf and draped it around Grace's neck. "This will keep you warm." He took off his gloves as well and pulled them over her small hands.

She stood rigidly as he secured the gloves and scarf. The slight scowl on her face was disappearing under the scarf as he wrapped it around her neck and pulled the hood of her jacket over her head.

"There," he said once he was done.

She didn't move.

"You can play now," he said.

Except for moving her eyes to look at her mother, Grace still did not move.

Goren, confused, also looked to Eames.

Laughing, Eames said, "Now you'll be warm."

Grace slowly turned around and walked back to the playground.

"Is she mad at me?" Goren asked.

"No."

"She looked angry."

Eames smiled and patted Goren on the knee.

On their way back to the house, the kids ran ahead and Goren and Eames walked slowly in the still, cold air. The street was quiet and all they could hear were the kids laughing and the sounds of their own steps crunching against the leaves on the pavement.

The air filled her lungs in a bitter and familiar way. It was New York. It was the New York she grew up with and the New York she would grow old with. It was as familiar to her as anything could be. As they walked, she looped her uninjured arm through Goren's.

He slowed his gate just enough to accommodate her stride. Goren was also part of her New York. He was by her side when they witnessed the worst aspects of the city, and sometimes the best. He was her working week, her tour guide, her historian, her restaurant critic, her leisure, her inside joke, her trivia, her map, her direction, her north, her south, her east, her west—he was her New York: familiar and sturdy. He was the New York she always thought she'd grow old with.

As they slowly walked, she looked up at him and said softly, "I heard you the other night—every word you said."

He continued to look straight ahead. "What are you talking about?"

"Everything, I guess—our fight. Sometimes you make me angrier than I can describe, but I hear you when you speak and I think about it."

"I said a lot of things I wish I hadn't."

"I know, me too." She tried to find the words that would make everything the way it should be, but she was at a loss. "You said that I am the only person who's ever loved you—that's not true. You are more loved than you know. You've done so much for so many people."

He shook his head, "My mother loved me, my brother loved me, and maybe Declan and a few girlfriends loved me, but they never showed me any love. You're the only person who did that."

"It's because you're everything to me."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the deep rise and fall of his chest.

They approached the house and watched the cold children run inside.

"Grace," Eames called.

Grace turned around just before running inside.

"Give Bobby back his scarf and gloves."

She tried to pull everything off but was having trouble with the giant gloves.

"Here," Goren said as he knelt in front of her, "let me help you."

She held out her hands and he pulled off the gloves.

"You can keep the scarf," he said. "It's a good one."

"Thanks," she said. Then she darted into the house after her cousins.

Eames sat on the steps leading up to the front door and Goren sat next to her.

"Do you remember when. . ." Goren started and Eames filled in the gaps. They talked about old cases—the more memorable ones—the lighter ones. There were moments from the past that neither would forget, and things they had long forgotten about their Major Case days were dug up and remembered fondly. They laughed and wondered and felt the pins of nostalgia.

"I should go," he said, rubbing his eyes.

"It's late," she agreed.

Neither of them moved or had any real intention of moving. They had exhausted small talk long ago, and conversation was becoming noticeably jagged and strained, yet this did not deter them in the least. Saying nothing, they sat freezing on the front steps. It was getting colder by the second. They both stared straight ahead.

Without moving, Goren said in a whisper, "I find it hard being without you."

Eames took a deep breath. "I've missed you too, Bobby." She placed her hand on top of his. She did not squeeze his hand or pat it; she just let her hand sit on top of his. The warmth of their hands radiated between them. "You know," she said finally, "I was right."

He waited for her to continue, but she didn't. "What were you right about?" he asked.

"I was right about you."

He waited.

She said, "You are _the best_, and that hasn't changed a bit."

He smiled to himself, then, much in the same way he did years ago, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. The warmth and softness of her skin was just as he remembered. He let his lips linger against her before he pulled away.

She turned to him and smiled. "Are you going to do that every time I complement you?"

As if he were hit in the stomach, he let out a huff of air. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

The smile on her face stretched and her eyes sparkled. "I'm joking."

Goren defensively held up his hands. "No, it's okay. Never again."

His eyes shined the way she hadn't seen in a long time.

"Can we try to be friends?" she said abruptly.

He squinted and tipped his head to the left.

"I mean," she began, "the last time we stopped working together—that was it. I want us to make the effort this time."

"Yes, we will stay in touch. I'll do my part," he said. "Or, in another five years we'll have a big fight over it."

She smiled, "let's not do that again."

"No, I didn't like that."

A swift thrust of wind swept down the long and linier street. Leaves were brushed off the trees and pushed down the sidewalk. The resonance of crisp leaves landing on the cold cement created a sound that was not loud, but all encompassing—for a few moments, it was all they could hear. It was comforting; it was reassurance.

He pointed to her with his long index finger, "You're the best."

"Sure," she whispered.

In the darkness, with only the moon and soft houselights to see by, she could almost see Goren as a young man again. The poor lighting hid the deep lines in his face and blurred the color of his gray hair. The longer she looked, the more she remembered him as the youthful, ambitious man who annoyed and fascinated her; the man who had yet to face deep tragedy; the man who was still funny and occasionally smiled.

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. She stayed only long enough to memorize the feeling.

He did not move.

They stared at each other for a moment and felt exactly what they had feared and expected.

"Sorry," she said, "I just wanted to know."

He nodded. "I wanted to know, too."

"At 90 years old, I would have regretted never kissing you," she said.

He smiled: "the 90-year-old question. It's a good thing to live by."

"It's worked out so far."

The front steps were cold and hard, but they never noticed. He tucked some lose hair behind her ears and moved closer. With a pounding pulse, he wrapped his arms around her, careful of her arm, and held her. She nuzzled the side of his face with her own.

There was relief in their physical closeness. Despite the bulk of their clothing, it was a closeness they both had long desired.

He brushed his lips against hers tentatively until she kissed him again—a little longer, a little deeper.

He knew what she was thinking. He knew she was thinking the same thing he felt.

"It was nice," she said.

"Only nice?" he asked, knowing.

"Yeah, only nice."

He nodded and pulled her into a closer hug.

"If I were smarter—" he whispered directly into her ear. There was a pause, he didn't know what to say, but he started again: "I wish I was the kind of man who could love you—who could be good for you."

"Me, too," she said sincerely. "I wish we had it in us."

He inhaled and pressed his check against hers. "I imagine it's the most wonderful feeling in the world to fall in love with you, Alex."

She felt her heart ache. There was deep desire. She wished more than anything that she was in love with him. For fleeting moments in the past few days she thought it might be there, that there was a chance. She thought that maybe their time apart had changed things just enough so that she could feel something passionate toward him. The love she had for him was not the love she wanted for him.

"It's strange," she confessed, still enveloped in his embrace.

"I would do anything for this to feel right," he said.

They found each other's lips. There was desperation and yearning inside each of them. This was their one last chance to see if their lives could change together. They took their time and both made a noble effort.

After slowly parting, Goren said regretfully, "It's a little awkward."

Eames grinned, "Yeah, it is a little awkward. I don't want it to be, but it is."

He smiled devilishly and shook his head. Despite his disappointment, it was a relief to know for sure.

"You know," Goren said in a moment without inhibition, "despite it being awkward, if you ever need me, I'll drop everything to come make love to you."

"What?" she asked.

He rubbed his forehead in embarrassment. "I know, the just words left my mouth."

She smiled.

He tilted his head, "well, since I've already made a fool of myself—and since we're not partners anymore—I'm going to be honest, these past few days, I've thought about it."

"About us?"

"Yes, about us—and about what it could feel like." He lowered his voice, "and what it would be like to share myself with you—emotionally, physically."

"I've had similar thoughts," she said. "Maybe we can work through the awkwardness?"

"Maybe all we need is one night together?"

"I wish my dad hadn't turned my old bedroom into an office."

He rolled his eyes, "I didn't mean it had to be _tonight_."

"You know I don't like to procrastinate."

He covered his face with his hands. "Ah, Eames."

She brushed his cheek with her thumb. "I wish we were normal, and then maybe this would work between us."

"We're not normal?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow, "look at us."

"Right."

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. "You were always my best quality. You still are."

She intertwined her fingers with his. "We were good detectives when we were together," she said.

"The best."

"I'm proud of what we accomplished."

"We did good," he whispered.

She said with a smile, "Goren and Eames."

"Goren and Eames," he repeated. With his forehead still against hers, he felt an overwhelming sense of euphoria. There was resolution.

"How's your arm?"

"It aches."

He tenderly kissed her wounded arm.

There was a long silence between them until Goren stood and said, "It _is _late."

They walked into the nearly empty house, and saw Grace sleeping on the living room floor. Her mother and father were finally putting away the rest of the food. "Are you leaving?" asked her mother.

"Yes. Thank you for dinner."

"Well, I'm glad you came. You are welcome back anytime—Oh," she grabbed a large Tupperware container filled with food, "take this."

"Thank you."

He shook hands with her father and walked out the door.

Eames followed him to the car and watched as he placed the container inside. He looked at her briefly, then away, and simply said, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Eames said with her hands buried deep in her coat pockets.

He stared at his shoes. "Is this it?"

Her eyes were getting heavy and the cool air burned the skin on her face. "I guess so," she said softly.

"I guess so," he repeated then kicked a small rock and watched it roll down the sidewalk. Without completely looking up, he gave a slight wave and began his slow walk to the driver's side door.

In the din of small gusts of cold air, leaves bouncing on the pavement, children laughing in the distance, dogs baking next door, and a passing car, Goren heard her voice. He turned back to Eames and asked, "did you say something?"

She gave a shallow nod. She said something that had been lost in the bitter New York air.

He took two large steps toward her then raised his eyebrows and let the corners of his lips curl up only slightly into a smile.

"I love you, Bobby," she whispered.

"I love you, too," he said without hesitation.

With labored steps, he walked around the car and opened the driver's door.

"Bobby," she said, "one of my detectives is moving out of state. If you want the job—"

"Yes."

She smiled, "you don't want to think about it?"

He shook his head. "I want the job."

"It's not as exciting as Major Case…"

"That's okay." For the first time in years, he felt a deep sense of relief and maybe even happiness. There was something for him to look forward to.

"Okay—the job is yours," she shrugged, "I'll see you around."

"_Every_day," he said. "I'll see you every day."

"_Every_ day." She repeated.

In the end, everyday was all they ever needed.


End file.
